Living Year to Year One
by Doreen Tracy
Summary: Sam finally returns home from his leaping. As he recovers, his and Al's friendship grows into something more. Will be slash
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Al's haggard face showed the patient weariness he'd grown accustomed to feeling in the past days. Sleep had been a stranger to him, his constant vigil necessitating wakefulness.

Forcing a grin upon his drawn features, he lifted the bowl of cereal - Cream of Wheat, or its equivalent. It was white and floppy, like the stuff they'd served on cold winter mornings at the orphanage. Spooning up a bit, he lifted it to the lips of the man on the bed.

The slack mouth opened and took the mouthful of cereal. Greenish eyes crinkled in a 'thank you'; no words were needed. Al dipped the spoon in the bowl and came up with another morsel. Small bites, Dr. Swann had instructed, so he wouldn't choke. The feeding ritual, four times a day, no slacking.

"What d'you think, Sam? Metallic red or electric blue?" Al brought the napkin up, dabbing at the cereal that dribbled down Sam's chin. "I've got to get my car repainted. Y'know how that desert sun just bakes right in, screws up anything and everything."

The bowl had only been half full, as much as Sam could eat at one time. Soon, it was empty, and Al set it aside. "I'd take you out for a drive, but I think Beeks and Swann would have my ass if I did." He leaned on his knees, bracing against the mattress, his hands over Sam's. "You used to like the way I drove, right?" Al grinned at the glint of wry amusement in the invalid's eyes. "I can tell what you're thinking. You have to admit I don't get speeding tickets that often: Well, only when you're in the car. That hasn't been for, what, four years?"

No response. Uncomfortable silences were becoming the norm in this room. Al sighed, trying hard not to let his friend see his discouragement. This had gone on for a week, since they'd retrieved Sam. Those dark-rimmed eyes were closing now, sleep taking over after breakfast, like it did everyday, as if he were a tiny baby.

Leaning back in the chair, Al tried to rum the bleariness out of his eyes. If only he could fall asleep so easily.

This place had been the Waiting Room, while Sam was Leaping. Now, its stark plainness was out-and-out boring. They had to do something about that if Sam was going to be staying here for a while. There had been no mad rush to the nearest hospital; the Project had complete facilities for neurological emergencies, and there was little an outside institution could do for Sam at this point.

It had been an emergency retrieval. The second meeting of the budget committee had assembled in D.C.. Diane McBride had not been re-elected and the new chairman of the committee was Senator Arthur Ronnenburg, a hard-liner who spent more time cutting budgets than expanding them. He did not believe that Dr. Sam Beckett was in the mists of time, somewhen. His practical sense did not believe in dreams or the strivings of Man. Two point eight billion dollars had been spent and he wanted to know where it had gone. The itemized list of expenditures prepared by Ziggy did not satisfy him. His final conclusion, and that of the esteemed panel, was that Sam Beckett was in a coma, had been in such a condition since he had stepped into the faulty Accelerator.

His cold suggestion was that Admiral Calavicci, as custodian of record, install the physicist in a proper institution setting, where he could receive adequate care for his condition. As for the Project, it would be dismantled in seven working days. Case closed, no argument.

There would be no last minute reprieve from God this time.

With a sinking feeling, Al made the phone call to the Project to inform them of the committee's decision. During the longest two-hour plane trip of his life, Al had to decide what to do. He made the decision to try for retrieval. It hadn't worked before, but they had to try.

Ziggy made predictions. Since the very first Leap, more road had been traveled by Gooshie and his team, and made for a fifty-fifty success prediction. Sam was mid-Leap and that, Ziggy computed, would simplify retrieval without the transfer between Sam and host to encumber them.

Al kept telling himself it wouldn't work. Sam would be lost in time forever if the Project were dismantled. He spent most of his time around him, Dr. Swann, the Project physician in Sam's absence, made dire predictions about Sam's future condition, should the retrieval be successful. The possible side effects of being torn back through time, the "Quantum Energy" stabilization... The Admiral took that all in stride, knowing they had no choice now. One way or the other, Sam Beckett was coming home.

Everything was in readiness. Anxious moments spent in the Waiting Room; Al, Verbena, and the med team awaiting any movement from Sam's motionless form. The Admiral found himself taking Sam's limp hand in his own, waiting out Ziggy's emotionless countdown. Zero. The moment of retrieval, Sam's death still body suddenly convulsed, eyes snapping open in surprise and fear.

One moment, Sam's fingers had been lax, then clenching Al's hand as if to break bone. Convulsions again, worse than before, almost throwing Sam from the bed he lay in. Al barely managed to pull his bruised fingers from Sam's grip and hold onto the writhing body until the med team could move in and take over.

In Al's eyes it seemed forever before the team could stabilize their patient. He watched the entire thing enfold before his eyes, not even aware of Verbena's hand on his arm, or her comforting words. Guilt slashed through him like a knife. He'd made the decision to tear Sam from Time, and now God - or whoever - was working His vengeance. Al felt himself flinch at each convulsion, every blip of the machine monitoring Sam's heart rate. The Team surrounded the bed, and it was hard to see his friend's face. then, in one moment, Al caught a glimpse that made his breath catch in his throat like broken glass. Tears came to his eyes as he took in the ravaged features, now lax against the pillows.

Dr. Swann's diagnosis was unnecessary. In his memory's eye Al remembered an old uncle, years before. Stroke. His face like melted wax on the Med Team faded as Al slumped in a chair on the far side of the room. He was numb and frozen, waiting and staying out of the way while Swann and his team worked to keep Sam alive.

The first moments were crucial. MMRI, "cat" scan. Orders were snapped out by Swann and efficiently carried out by the Med Team. Through all the chaos, Al stayed in his chair, his eyes riveted on the man on the bed. His friend, Sam. He mutely accepted the cup of coffee Verbena offered him and sipped at it absently, watching and waiting.

In the hours that followed, explanations made the situation clear. Sam had probably suffered a minor stroke upon retrieval, damaging the right hemisphere of his brain, impairing motor function on his left side. The MMRI indicated that his neurons had been partially stropped by the trauma, leaving him much like a newborn baby - unable to perform certain functions until its brain has developed. Certain chemicals, over time, would alleviate that problem, but nothing could be done about his other condition until his vital nerve connectors had been restored.

Once Sam had been stabilized, Al moved his chair to his side. He studied his friend's face, looking for any sign of the personality that lurked within, the bright, living light that was Sam Beckett. He saw nothing but the shell of something that was lost, the down turned mouth, the eye that slanted, almost sliding off the once expressive face.

"He'll be under constant observation through the night, Admiral," Swann said, sitting down next to Al. He nodded at the monitors and life support equipment that had been set up. "All of his functions have been stabilized, for now. Considering what he's been through today..."

Al gripped the safety rails of the bed tightly, his eyes on Sam's face. "I'm staying with him."

"Admiral, you look like you could use some rest yourself."

"I've made my decision," Al reiterated. Inwardly, Al knew it was his fault Sam was like this. He'd made the order, and this was the direct result of that action. "Dr. Beckett is my responsibility."

Sighing, Dr. Swann stood to leave. "I'll be staying here tonight, and the team is on standby until further notice. If you need me I'll be a link call away. If his condition should deteriorate, we'll have to airlift him to Los Alamos Trauma Center."

Al kept a constant vigil, dozing off once in a while as the night dragged on. Once in a while, he'd sense Verbena at his side, worried, but silent, her hand resting on his shoulder for a moment just to let him know she was there. Then, the silence, only broken by the sound of the monitors and machines that seemed to be keeping Sam alive.

He kept his hand curled around Sam's warm fingers, wanting his touch to be the first thing Sam should sense if he awoke. One of the team instructed Al on how to move the patient to prevent skin irritation, and fluid from collecting in his lungs. Al had spent some time in a vet hospital after Viet Nam, and remembered how to handle trauma patients from that time. It kept him busy and helped him feel like he was doing something to help Sam besides sitting there like a lump.

It was late, way past the time Al usually turned in. Exhaustion had dragged him down to slump in the chair, dozing fitfully. Gradually, by degrees, he awoke to see Sam gazing at him from the bed.

Al leaned forward quickly, grasping Sam's right hand with both of us. There was confusion and fear in the hazel-green eyes. "It's okay, kid. You're home," Al said soothingly. "We snatched you back."

Sam lifted his head a fraction, trying desperately to sit up, frustrated that he couldn't. His entire body felt like a lead weight. What was wrong with him? Trying to push up from the mattress, he found that one side of his body responded sluggishly, and the other, not at all. He looked to Al for explanation and saw the sympathy there. Even his voice wouldn't work as he tried desperately to form words. He found himself gasping for air, frightened more than he'd ever bee in his life.

With a choking sensation Al watched Sam fight to communicate, his struggle to move. "There were...problems, Sam. You can't talk, not yet." Desperation to get through to his best friend made him speak quickly. "It's okay. I'll do the talking for both of us. They say you've had a stroke, a minor one." He brought his hand up to touch the side of Sam's face, the frightened gaze widening as his fingers made contact with his skin. "In a couple of months you'll be back on your feet, so don't worry about it. We didn't have a choice this time - they were going to cut funding and leave you high and dry. I couldn't let that happen. Don't blame anyone but me for this, Sam. It's my fault."

The man on the bed untensed, his gasping easing down to a calmer breathing pattern. He could live with an explanation, that he was hurt, but home. Al could touch him here, and that meant more than anything the other man could tell him. With his friend at his side, his warm physical presence gripping his hand tightly, it became so real. He tried vainly to return the grasp, and was rewarded by a broad grin from Al.

"You can hear me. Good." Al blinked back the tears that were burning behind his eyes. Sam had moved his right hand, a gentle squeeze that meant volumes. "No more time-traveling for a while. You're home and I'm not leaving this room until you out and out tell me to." The struggle to stay awake was evident on Sam's face. "You should rest. "We'll have plenty of time to talk later." Al reached up and tugged the blankets around Sam's chin as the younger man nestled against the pillows. "You're safe," Al said, echoing the words Beeks had told him to use if Sam should wake. "This isn't a dream. I'll be right by your side the minute you wake up again. Sleep now."

For the first time in what seemed like eons, Sam Beckett closed his eyes, feeling secure and warm. He didn't have to pretend anymore, or worry about who he was the Leap. He was Home.

That had been more than a week ago. Al settled back in the recliner, one that Verbena had brought from somewhere so he'd at least be comfortable while watching Sam. When the kid slept it was easier to believe that he was well and whole again. Somehow, Sam's face in repose erased the tiny lines of tension, relaxed the drooping left side. Al had grown used to the changes in his friend, the left eye that he could barely open, the way his mouth tilted, as if sliced by a knife during clumsy surgery.

The hand in Al's stirred, Sam's eyes opening to gaze upon his friend's exhausted face.

"How're you doing, Buddy Boy?" Al grinned. "Not a long nap, this time." Sam's thumb caressed his wrist as he spoke, expressing himself in a way no words could. "I know, Sam. I know. Now, what say we read the paper?" Al gently removed his had from Sam's and reached for the Alamagordo paper that Verbena thoughtfully provided every day. "Comic page first. You used to love "Bloom County". Remember the silly party where everyone had to come dressed as Opus?" That odd, lost look appeared in Sam's eyes, like when he tried to remember something he'd Swiss-cheesed during a Leap. Al sighed, digging through the paper. "First thing every morning, like clockwork. You'd have your tea, although that's not on your diet now. Then, the paper. Comics, sports, news, business, always in that order. Used to drive me nuts watching you compulsively fold and refold every page. Hell, when you were through, it didn't look as if you'd even read it. I'm not that nuts, mind you, but you know that already. I'm a Class-A slob."

Sam's head turned away. Laying the paper aside, Al leaned over the bed railing, touching his friend's arm gently with his fingers. "You okay? Look at me, Sam. Tell me."

Al had spent so much time with Sam in the last week that he felt he could read the other man's thoughts from the expression in his eyes. A tear was slipping down the injured man's face, slowly falling to the pillow. Al wiped the wetness from Sam's cheek with the back of his hand, swallowing hard. "I know it hurts," he said gently, just the barest of roughness creeping into his voice. "you have all that stuff to say and not bein' able to do it. Ah, Sam, it's going to take a while, but we'll make it like we do everything else. Patience and forbearing, to quote you and half the senators in D.C." Sam made a noise between a snort and a laugh, making Al's eyes light up. Slumping back in the chair, the older man rubbed his face wearily. "Oh year, another thing. Ronnenburg, that nozzle." Al had to grin at the disgusted look that crossed Sam's face. "Doc sent him the data on your retrieval. Seems he's had a change of heart. Kept the Project on the Top Secret list, for now. We're not allowed use of the Accelerator, of course, but now he's changed his mind! They aren't going to dismantle the Project - so we can keep you here. that's good news, huh?" A tiny shrug was all the reaction Al received to his question. "I bet, inside, you're overjoyed. Hospital food, remember? Yucky. Everything you want in the world is here - home cooking." Sam rolled his one good eye, making another face. "Very funny, kid. When they say it's okay I'll sneak you in a pizza."

Sam was drifting off again, and Al felt himself wanting to do the same. The bed Verbena had insisted be set up for the Admiral was an inviting sight. It was within arm's reach of the panic button in case something should go terribly wrong - which it hadn't. Yet.

Sliding off his loafers, Al pulled himself onto the vacant bed. As usual, sleep was slow in coming. The moment he'd drift off, he'd be aware of Sam's sleeping presence near him. When the other man would stir, Al jolted awake as if connected to an electric wire, watching and worrying. Once Sam settled back into sleep, the older man would again try to doze, only to be roused when his friend moved again.

Al was unaware of Verbena's concerned gaze from the one way window. At other times, she'd watched those who had spent time in this room, inhabiting Sam's body. Now, her face was a mask of concern. The way the Admiral was pushing himself, he'd be a basket case in a week - or less, if this pattern of behavior continued.

Squaring her shoulders, she entered the room. She hesitated before leaning over Al's bed, then gently touched his shoulder. "Al, we have to talk."

Slowly, Al rolled over onto his back, his right hand shading his eyes. "Talk away," he said warily.

Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, Verbena kept her tone soft so Sam wouldn't be disturbed. "You're not going to like this, but I've brought you a sedative." She kept speaking, ignoring the face Al was making. "Instead of palming it, as you usually do, I'm asking you to swallow it. Your patient will be in very good hands, should he need someone."

Al sighed, sitting up just enough to take the pill she handed him. "I hate pills," he grouched, like a little kid.

"This one will help you sleep, Al." 'Bena poured a glass of water from the pitcher by Sam's bed and handed it to Al.

"I don't want this."

"Make it a direct order from your physician."

"You are not my doctor."

"Dr. Swann prescribed the medication and I didn't hesitate to put my two cents in." She stood, hands on hips, watching Al with a steely expression in her brown eyes. "Take it, or pass out from exhaustion. You'll be a big help to Sam, then."

Not happy about the idea, Al took the pill and lay down. The medication worked its magic, pulling him into blessed oblivion.

Verbena watched with relief as the Admiral's eyes closed. Seating herself by Sam's bed she picked up a worn paperback from the bedside table. Dandelion Wine. It had been one of Dr. Beckett's favorite books in the days before he'd leaped; she remembered it in his hands during those rare times he was resting between crisis. His always expressive face would settle into soft lines as he read, lost in the lyrical Bradbury phasing.

With a start, she realized Sam's eyes were open and searching anxiously for Al. Quickly, she reached over and gently patted his hand, soothing him with her words. "Al is in the next bed, asleep. He needs his rest, too. Would you like me to read you something?"

The hand in hers squeezed once, firmly, as the expression on the agitated features calmed. Al had been the one who discovered Sam spoke with his right hand. A squeeze, a certain pressure, or a touch, could say volumes if the right person sensed it. The psychiatrist could also surmise, by the expression in those shaded greenish eyes, what Sam was feeling, be it anxiety, impatience, or satisfaction.

Opening the book, she kept her free hand over Sam's as she read. "It was a quiet morning," she began. "The town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first morning of summer."

She read on, about a town rising from the depths of long sleep. With satisfaction she noticed that her voice smoothed the lines of frustration on Sam's face, making him look almost healthy. He loved his books, she remembered, rarely going anywhere without a volume or two. It was his relaxation, and probably one of the reasons she had never had him as a patient, only a friend.

The words of the novel swept over the invalid like a cool breeze, Verbena's calm, even voice a perfect accompaniment to the almost poetic phrasing. For an hour he could forget the prison he was encased in, his own body. Most of the time his thoughts were unsteady, like alphabet letters scattered over a blank piece of paper. Somehow, he could touch the familiar words she read, his memory echoing back each paragraph of the much loved book. It helped him remember the time before leaping, being healthy and active.

There were reasons why he loved the book; memories of his grandparents and their home in Elk Ridge after Dad had taken over the farm and they had retired. Staying at their house in the summer, early mornings slow and sleepy, hearing the sound; of the town awakening. The aroma or bacon and biscuits, Grandpa humming as he shaved. With some relief Sam noted that his memories were not impaired, or his thinking processes. In fact, his recall of his own history was clearer than it had been while he was leaping.

Verbena closed the cover after reading a couple of chapters. "If you want, I'll read more later but it's nearly lunchtime." She leaned over and placed the book in Sam's hand, folding his fingers over it. "I'll leave this with you while I go get your meal."

As she left the room, the terrible choking fear flooded his senses as it did every time he was left alone. Verbena had said Al was near; quietly resting. Sure enough, in the bed next to him, Al was sleeping. The panic quelled in him, knowing his friend was near, like on a leap, the only pillar of sanity in a sea of madness. Flat on his stomach, snoring softly, but as real and as substantial as the book in his hand.

He looked down at the volume. His fingers played over the cover, stroking the well-worn finish. The trembling eased a bit. He was Home, he kept repeating, forcing the thought to become reality. He was Home.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

It was early evening before Al awoke. Nearby, Verbena was sitting near Sam, crocheting, humming softly to herself. It was an easy sound to listen to for a few minutes, Al thought. "That looks domestic," he said softly, sitting up and stretching. "Just like Mother Murphy, watching the kids!"

"Really." She smiled wryly, keeping her eyes on her work. "It's better than smoking, or other self abuse." She kept her voice low, almost a whisper. "He's sleeping," she explained.

Getting out of bed, Al strayed one glance towards his friend, then went to the bathroom. It was a great luxury to have the time to clean up and change. Gooshie had thoughtfully brought some of his clothes and toiletries from his quarters. And his wallet. God only knew the last time he'd needed that. Most of his time was spent here, running from the Imaging Chamber to whatever situation Sam had gotten into. Slowly, he opened it, glancing at his military I.D. and drivers license. Sure, he was still Albert Calavicci, D.O.B 6-15-36, all that stuff. Most of the plastic sleeves held credit cards, even an old Playboy Club card, long expired, that he kept for nostalgic reasons. One photo that he rarely looked at lately. Sam hated having photos taken of himself and this one showed just a little of the fire in his hazel eyes. It was a candid shot, the kid hovering over some experiment years ago.

He'd missed him so much. Fighting back emotion, he shut the wallet quickly and shoved it back into the bag. He pulled slacks and shirt out and then turned the shower on, making sure the water was good and hot.

The steamy water poured over his tired body, washing off some of the exhaustion and aches that had built up since the last time he'd cleaned up. Of course, he thought, Sam was still essentially himself. He expressed his feelings in touches, looks, the way his hand gripped his when he bathed him, or spooned mush into his mouth. It was like he was expressing an apology, as if he were sorry to put everyone to so much trouble.

The pain that had been building in him for days suddenly burst. He gritted his teeth against the onslaught, feeling tears hotter than the water from the shower pour down his face. His body shook from silent sobs, bracing against the cool porcelain tiles as he cried.

Waiting patiently, Verbena was relieved to hear the shower and glad Al was taking the time to care for himself. When he finally emerged from the bathroom he looked unpleasantly worn and wired but better than the exhausted man she'd sedated that morning. She was quick enough to notice the tiny read rims under the dark eyes, but tactfully kept her comments to herself.

Al took her seat by the bed, keeping his pensive gaze on the man there. "Sleeping again?"

"He'll do that a lot right now." She leaned against the back of the chair, cradling her head on her arms. "Dr. Swann says it's partially because of the medication we've been giving him to recover. They want to start his therapy next week."

"I heard you reading to him," Al picked the book up from the bedside table, his gaze softening at the sight of the worn paperback. He'd grabbed it from Sam's bookshelf in the house they had shared near the Project. Somehow he'd thought it would come in handy. "This is one of his security blankets."

"You told me." Verbena got her things together, preparing to leave. "He used to carry it around with him when things got tight. I thought it might be something he'd like to hear, an easy adjustment from Leaping, hearing something familiar."

"He'll be okay," Al said roughly, rubbing his face. His eyes still burned from the tears he'd shed.

"Turn around."

Frowning, Al shifted in the chair. With practiced fingers, the woman pressed her hands into Al's shoulders, working the tense muscles. She smiled as Al eased into his hands, a light smile playing across his face as she soothed the stiffness. "Would it really hurt," she asked carefully, still massaging. "If you turned this operation over to the staff for the night, go home and really rest?"

"I got a good nap." Al enjoyed the sensation of the skilled fingers working his sore muscles and stiff neck. "He needs me here."

"And you need a break." Verbena stopped for a moment, wiggling her fingers. "Your back is a mess and I don't even want to think about what you must feel like with the little bits of sleep you catch from time to time. We had to sedate you to sleep as much as you did today." She knelt by the chair to gaze into the stubborn face. "Yes, Sam needs you, but you need to stay alive and healthy. Catching five hours in the same room with him is not restful. You're putting off the inevitable. Eventually you'll have to leave, just to keep your sanity."

"He can't leave."

"And you can. Quit punishing yourself. He's home, Al. You're needed in one piece. Even if you spent a night here, in your quarters, it would be better on him. He can't become too dependent on your presence or he'll be less of a person than he was before. You can't do that to him." She glanced over at Sam for a moment and was relieved that he was still soundly asleep.

"Who will take care of him?"

"We have a highly capable staff that would love to get in here and take care of Sam. They're falling over themselves just to bring things in here. They'll read to him, talk to him, care for him. It won't be you, but just as much love as you put into his care."

Al shifted uneasily at the 'L' word. "I'm his friend," he began.

"And love is part of friendship. Anyway, what do you say? Home tonight at least? You can feed him dinner, tuck him in, and be back in time for breakfast. I'm only asking for one night, Al." Al threw his hands up in a helpless motion. "What will I do?"

"I don't know. Sleep, read a book, just distract yourself. Maybe call Tina..."

"She and I..." Al tightened his mouth for a moment. "We're not seeing as much of each other these days."

"I see." The upheavals of the Tina/Al relationship were usually general knowledge around the Project, better than a soap opera. She picked up her bag. "I'll make arrangements for Dr. Swann to have Greg or one of the other guys in here tonight." There was no response from the man in the chair, his eyes on Sam. "Is that okay with you or are you playing the martyr?"

His shoulders bowed with defeat. "If it's for the best, for Sam, I'll do it." Al gripped the handrails of the bed, his eyes searching Sam's sleeping face for any sign of objection.

Al fed his patient dinner before working his way into leaving. Same mush, smelled like stew, and probably tasted good. Sam didn't complain, as usual, eating every bite fed him, his eyes fairly glowing over the pudding he had for dessert. Every spoonful was gratefully accepted, only a little dribble this time, not enough to cause a huge mess.

As usual, Al helped Sam dress in a clean gown and changed the sheets of the bed before tucking him in for the night. Al mentally made a memo to grab some sheets from home for the next time he was there. Maybe the sight of patterned linens and the scent of fabric softener would make this place seem a little less sanitized. Should bring his TV and VCR while he was at it, and some of that stuff he liked to watch, Sam's idea of unwinding - popcorn and a science fiction movie, or a favorite television show.

As he settled Sam against the clean sheets and pillows, he gently fingered the chestnut hair. It was getting long, almost touching the still-broad shoulders, and it hadn't been washed in a day or two. That was easily remedied, of course. "What do you think, Buddy? We can do it all up like a beauty parlor in here. Wash your hair, give you a trim. Remember those twins, kid? You did make me jealous, really!"

The green eyes eased into laugh lines, the good side of Sam's mouth quirking into a grin.

"Yeah, and 'Bena says you might not remember the Leaps. Kid, I know that look. As much of a Boy Scout you might pretend to be, I know there's a devil lurking behind those eyes."

"I'm here to relieve you, Admiral."

Al's head snapped around, glancing at the stocky man dressed in scrubs behind him. "You'll be with him all night?"

"Yes, Sir."

Sam frowned, unseen by Al, who was momentarily distracted. A flash of panic stirred in his eyes. Was Al leaving him? Certainly, he needed a break, but it felt so good to have him near. Would he manage to sleep through the night without him? He had to shove aside the fear, accept this change in routine.

"I'll be a link call away if he needs me," Al said, instructing the medic. "Just down the hall a ways. You have to talk to him, let him know someone is here all the time."

"No problem, Admiral."

Sam reached over, gripping his friends hand. The dark eyes met his and turned away, frowning.

"I'm going to my quarters, Sam. Not far at all. 'Bena's orders, y'know. Says it's good we spend a little time apart, just for the night."

I'm being selfish, Sam thought. I don't want him to go. Just one more night so I can get used to the idea of him not being here all the time.

Al frowned at the tremble that touched Sam's mouth. His eyes widened as his head moved in one, quick, negative shake. "What's 'no', Sam?" Al kept his hands over Sam's, increasing the pressure gently. "You want me to stay?"

Sam's eyes filled with tears, his frustration at not being able to speak forcing his emotions out. He swallowed several times, his head slamming back on the pillows. There was no way to express himself, to tell Al how he was feeling, what he really wanted from his friend.

Al sighed as the tears ran unchecked down the sides of Sam's face, dripping onto the fresh linen. Sinking back down into the chair, he tightened his grip on Sam's hand. "Okay, kid. I'm staying. 'Bena will have both our heads, but what the hell?" He turned to the nurse. "Your name is Chuck, right?"

"Chuck Myers, sir. Greg sent me over from. . ."

"Well listen up, Chuck Myers. I need a cup of coffee - make it the whole pot, and some brandy. You'll find that in my office, and a glass for that, too. Ask security for the access code. You know where to go?"

"I was ordered to take over for you, Admiral."

"Tough. Tell Greg plans change. If he has a problem with that, ask him to check with me."

"Whatever you say, Admiral."

Chuck left on his errands and Al leaned over the guardrail to regard the man in the bed with a 'what am I going to do with you' look. He sagged back in the chair, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. Maybe the brandy would help him to sleep. Verbena was right in one respect - he felt like hell.

The nurse returned with the promised brandy and a full thermos of coffee. The brandy eased him down into a comfortable warmth. Al kept his gaze on Sam as Chuck left, worried about the expression crossing the bedridden man's face. Sam was upset, the side of his face that he had control over was pinched; tight and angry. He hadn't moved since he'd fallen back on the pillows.

Quickly changing into his own pajamas, Al reentered the room only to find Sam unmoving. Sam didn't fight against Al's touch as he made sure Sam was comfortable in a position where he wouldn't choke or tumble out of bed. Al dimmed the lights in the room, preparing for sleep. Sam's features were just barely discernible in the subdued light. Frowning, Al reached out, touching the side of the younger man's face, the side that didn't look like something out of a horror film. The clenched jaw under his palm was wet with tears.

They'd tried to communicate with pen and paper but Sam didn't have the muscle coordination to hold the writing instrument. "I wish you could talk," Al said, his voice quietly sad. "I can't read your mind, or know everything you need. God, Sam." Reaching down, he lowered the bed rail and sat on the edge of the mattress. With the tips of his fingers he stroked Sam's hair, fingering each strand gently, hoping he was getting through to his friend how much he cared. Sighing, he gathered Sam into his arms and held him as tightly as he dared, careful of the one remaining I.V. in his left arm.

Sam couldn't lift his arms to return the embrace. They hung loose at his sides as Al rocked him gently back and forth. Like a dam breaking, the first sob choked out, the head on Al's shoulder shaking with the effort.

Stroking Sam's back, Al buried his face against the chestnut hair and held the other man tightly. "You're no veg, are you, kid? Scared?" Tears soaked through Al's pajamas as Sam nodded, barely moving his head. "I suspected as much. Damn Swann anyway, talking around you like you were a toadstool or something." Tension and fury weaved through Al's voice, his hands tangling in Sam's hair. "Do you trust me?"

Another nod, the tears subsiding a fraction.

Al pulled just a little away from Sam, tenderly framing his friends face with his hands. "Like everything, it's going to take time. Every word, every free movement, all of it, and I'll be here with you, fighting every step of the way til you walk out of this room on your own, bitching to high heaven."

Sam clenched his eyes tight, his right arm barely lifting to touch his friend's waist. He was so grateful for Al's presence. If anyone else had seen him this way... With complete trust he believed that knowledge of his painful outburst would never go past this room.

"Okay, Sam, let's settle down. Crying like this isn't good for you." Al gently lowered his friend back to the bed, cradling Sam's neck until his head eased into the pillows. As he lifted his hand away, Sam turned his head, his lips brushing against Al's palm. With infinite gentleness, Al wiped the last tears from Sam's cheeks with the tips of his fingers and caressed his skin once before taking the hand that reached for his.

Al kept his perch on the mattress, watching Sam's face, holding his hand until the kid was deeply asleep. He checked the IV, made sure Sam was tucked in securely, and finally pulled up the guardrail. Al seated himself in the recliner, poured a glass of brandy and enjoyed the sensation as the drink settle him into a sleepy softness. Once the glass was empty, he set it on the table next to the bed and settled back into the recliner, pulling a blanket over himself. Curling up as much as he could, he kept his eyes on Sam. The younger man lay on his back, the small light over his bed illuminating Sam's features.

In profile, Al couldn't see the effects of the stroke, or the trauma it had wrought. Sam was handsome on his right side, perfect and normal, in fact. In the space of two weeks their lives had been radically changed. With a wistful half smile, Al remembered how he used to think of Sam as being the mother hen with one chick, and here he was, holding him while he cried, tucking him in each night. Jerking the blanket up, he closed his eyes and willed sleep to fall over him.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

Chapter Two

"...and now the time has come, and so my love I must go. And though I lose a friend, in the end you will know..."

The all-day Beatles marathon seemed to perk Sam up, and Al found both the music and the younger man's attitude refreshing.

Maybe it was the medication they were treating Sam with, or simply that his strength was increasing, but Sam had changed in the last week.

He was more alert, eating more than he had been, and stubborn. The old Beckett rebellion was beginning to tell on Al's nerves. In only a few days Sam had turned from cooperative patient to belligerent man.

Al's appearance was going to hell, not shaving, changing his clothes infrequently, and a general rumpled exterior.

Verbena spent a lot of time behind the one-way window, observing what was fast becoming two patients. Al was not listening to reason. After the night a week before when she thought she had convinced him to leave and get some rest, she'd returned the next morning to find the older man curled up on his recliner, and Sam in an agitated state the moment he awoke.

Al sensed the psychiatrist's presence and ignored it. She was fast becoming a royal pain in the butt. He took the just-delivered bowl of cereal to the bed and sat down.

"Bet you're dying for anything but this." He absently stirred the stuff in the bowl, his face dragged down into tired lines. "I forget. You like toast and coffee. Or tea. Dry toast. Yuck." He held the spoon up, touching it to Sam's lips. The man in the bed kept his mouth tightly closed, his green eyes sparkling and flaming. Sighing, Al brought the eating instrument down. "What's wrong? You playin' games again?"

It was hard to believe that Sam was behaving this way. To go from obedient to downright unpleasant just wasn't Beckett's style. In the past days his stubborn refusal to cooperate with the most mundane of requests had nearly pushed Al over the edge with impatience.

He held the spoon out again. Sam's good hand came up, smacking the utensil out of Al's unsuspecting fingers. Cereal and flatware went flying to the floor as Al abruptly dropped the bowl. The thread he'd held for the past days finally snapped. "Damn it, Sam!" His eyes flashed to meet Sam's and only saw belligerence and anger there. "What the hell is with you?"

The man in the bed lifted his head, dismissing Al with a motion of his right hand.

"Fine," Al said between clenched teeth. "If that's how you feel, kid." He turned on his heel and walked from the room. If he had longer hair he would want to pull it out. Slumping against the corridor wall, he took a big gulp of air.

"Had enough, Admiral?"

Verbena's voice held no smugness, just a lot of sympathy. "You believe me now when I said it might be too much of a load for you?"

"What were you doing? Taking bets?"

"Oh, of course not!"

"I could handle it." Leaning on the one-way glass, Al watched the man on the other side. Sam was lying on the bed, the only movement his agitated right hand, hitting the guardrail. "I blew it, didn't I?" The psychiatrist shrugged. "Christ, I'm not much of a friend to him if I can't handle a little spilled Cream of Wheat?"

"It's gone beyond that. You'll soon grow to resent him, and he, you." She gripped Al's shoulder, her gaze soft as she watched Sam. "What do you see in there, Al?"

"I see Sam," he said quietly. "I think he's regretting what he did, or maybe it was uncontrollable. He never did like me hovering over him."

"I saw what he did. Deliberate as hell."

"Maybe." Al bent his head, trying to make sense of what was going on. "The other night...he was so scared I was going to leave him alone. You should've seen it! I . . ."

Verbena leaned her hip against the windowsill, looking thoughtfully at her old friend. "I did my residency in a major hospital and worked, mostly, with rehab. Lots of stroke victims. We discovered that once they recovered some of their motor abilities and could speak they vocalized their concerns about their loved ones. Husbands who wouldn't leave their sides, and so on. Their illness, they believed, interrupted and disrupted their family and friend's lives. They just wanted everyone to treat them as they would normally, not wait on them hand and foot. They didn't seem to mind when the medical staff took over their care, but the ones closest to them - all they wanted was their love and support and that they could have a normal life again."

"What you're sayin' is that I should let the team take over."

"At least the feeding and cleaning, Al. Just that. You spend your time with him as you have been, but let them do their jobs and take that weight off your shoulders. Sam will be happier for it, and so will you. Your job is being neglected, and you know very well this place can't run without our Admiral at the helm. Your aide is beside herself with all the phone calls and paper work that need to be taken care of..."

"I . . ." Al grimaced. "I feel torn between Sam and everything else. It's a real hard place to be, wanting him to get up and walk out of that room like nothing happened and knowing it isn't going to happen soon. He's like a little kid, not being able to do things for himself."

"True, for now. From what I've observed this morning he's ready for physical therapy - no doubt about that! The meds have done their job." She gripped Al's arm, making his head come up. "Both of you need a break. You know Sam Beckett, Al. Would he want you to change everything, give up all you both have worked for to be with him?"

"No." Sam, Al thought, was far from perfect, but in all the years he'd known him, he'd hated being coddled. Most of his energy was expended helping other people. "I know he just wants to get better, 'Bena. I've been hovering over him too much, making him feel like his mother or something."

"He needs that to a degree. Don't abruptly leave him to the mercies of the staff. That will confuse and hurt him. Tell him you're going back to work, which is the truth. Always be truthful with him. He deserves honesty, not that you haven't been that way up to now." She draped her arm around Al's slumped shoulders. "Go back in there now, get your things, and tell Sam you're going to play Admiral for a while. He'll understand, guaranteed."

Al reentered the room and shoved his hands in his pockets as he neared Sam's bed. The green eyes shifted to meet his. The anger had left them, and now they seemed to be pleading for forgiveness. Al reached across the rail and took Sam's hand, an easy smile playing across his tired features. "It's okay, kid. I'm having trouble with my patience, I guess. Things are getting a bit close in here. What say we let the med team do their work for a change?" The hand in his eased it's grip, Sam's thumb stroking Al's wrist. "I'm going back to work. Stuff piling up on my desk and that. You know. I'll be as far away as my office. We can sit together at night, before bedtime. Time apart, Sam. Just a few hours a day, but 'Bena says it's good for us. What do you think?"

The answer was a minuscule shrug and the smallest of grins lifting the right side of Sam's mouth. "Great, kid. Remember what I said?" Smiling, Al gave his friend a sharp nod. "You're doing better already. Make me a promise though."

Cocking his head to one side, Sam frowned. In his current condition he didn't know if he was capable of keeping promises, but for Al he'd try.

"Don't be a hassle to the team. Give them a break. No more throwing things, or the stubborn mule routine. You have to get well, kid. They're the boss. With me, it's okay. I let you slide a little. They won't."

From her observation point, Verbena watched as Al enfolded Sam in a hug. From the expression on Sam's face their conversation had gone well; pure pleasure, enjoying Al's closeness. He positively drank in touches after not having them for so long.

Al was smiling as he left the room, feeling some of the weight of responsibility lift from his shoulders. He gave Verbena a wink as he headed towards his office.

Chapter Three

The first therapy session was brutal. Greg, the head therapist, tried his best to be gentle, but Sam knew that stretching long-unused muscles would hurt. Verbena's comforting presence helped him through most of it, but Al...

"Let's try a little speech work, Dr. Beckett."

Every nerve froze in his body. Using his voice had once seemed second nature, but now it was as if his vocal chords ha frozen into an unusable mass. A brick in his throat.

Greg's well-trained eyes noted the fear in Sam's expression. "Would it be better if we do this alone? Sometimes that helps. You won't sound the way you're used to, at first."

Sam nodded, giving Verbena a look of apology. She seemed to understand, a kind smile crossing her face.

"You'll be fine, Sam. I'll be outside if you need me, okay?"

It was a fight just forcing sounds out. He tried, encouraged by his therapist's energetic smile and personality.

"Ah, Doctor. Try that. Just an 'ah'."

"Aww..." Sam winced. That wasn't right, damn it. He sighed, shaking his head.

"Good, you're doing fine."

They worked together for an hour, relentlessly trying to make the right sounds. More frustration for Sam, not having the facilities to do the exercises, angering and worrying him more.

"It's fine, Doctor." Greg patted Sam's hand as he closed his notes. "We'll work tomorrow, and every day until you are reciting Shakespeare. I hear you're pretty good at that - did it in the nude?"

Grinning as much as he was able, Sam felt a slow blush creep up his face. That was one aspect o his Leaps that he wished he cold forget.

"Believe me. It's not general knowledge. Just one of those things that you couldn't possibly believe. I only met you a couple of times before you Leaped. Do you remember?"

Searching his memory, Sam smiled as the face filed away in his mind came up. He'd hired Greg, a fresh-faced, blond haired beach boy from Southern California. A good person who was enthusiastic about his work. He'd done amazing things with the people who had inhabited his body while he was...gone. It had helped him keep his strength up, his muscle tone, which would help him now.

"You do remember. That's terrific. Then I can call you Sam, like old times. We'll get together again tomorrow. I want you up and walking a week from now, at least on the bars. You're capable of it, and we can get it done if you want to. What do you think?"

Sam cocked his head to one side, hoping his determination to get well showed on his face. From the grin Greg was giving him, it must have.

Greg left, and Sam enjoyed the quiet after the workout he'd been put through. It was strange, but after just one session he could wiggle his left hand - a little. It was a small triumph, but encouraging enough to make Sam want to have another session immediately. He could recall his medical training, and seeing amazing things happen to stroke victims and people who had been in devastating accidents. Sometime complete recovery.

His exhausted body pulled down into sleep, and he easily acquiesced.

"How's Sam?"

Startled, Verbena whirled around from her viewpoint at the window. "Al!"

"Who else?" He glanced at the sleeping man through the window for a moment, then back at the psychiatrist. "Sleeping."

"He misses you, but I think he's glad you're taking a break."

"How did his therapy go?"

"It went. He really overdid it, and Greg just encouraged him. I'm not a therapist, but..." She shrugged. "He's so anxious to please, just pushes and pushes. We're making him feed himself, starting tonight. Greg worked with him a little, and he got the hang of it right away. It really pissed him off a little when he lost the spoon once or twice, and we'll still have to deal with that. A real tough stubborn streak."

"That's Sam, all over the place and between." Al shrugged. "I've spent the best of the morning just getting space cleared on my desk. You weren't kidding around. Lots of calls, some crap from the Committee I'm trying my best to ignore. Christ, even a call from a presidential aide that I'd better answer before the day is out.. I guess I got so wound up here I forgot to get business done."

"Come back around dinner time. He needs encouragement and I might need a hand giving it to him. It means more coming from you than anyone else at this point."

"Won't miss it. Tell him - later, and if you need me..."

"A Link call away, I know."

The new routine became natural. Al would arrive, breakfast with Sam, then go to work and Greg would come in for the morning session. The weariness between sessions and meals seemed to dissipate as the therapy intensified. Certainly, his muscle tone and dexterity with his right hand was improving, but he couldn't force a single word from his throat. To ad to his frustration, manipulating the apparatus he used for meals made him angry and impatient. His hand still trembled, far too much to hold a spoon unaided.

Break time, Al thought, shoving aside the phone. It seemed to ring the moment he tried to fill out one of a number of overdue reports, or tried to leave.

He stopped at his aide's desk. "Hold my calls," he told the attractive brunette and she smiled in answer. It was a weary grin. She'd been putting in overtime, covering his butt and generally being the best secretary he could ever have. "You deserve a medal, Hayley."

"Put me in for one." She wrinkled her nose. "While you're at it, make it two. I need the promotion - a new car would be nice."

"I'll see to it." He gave her a warm smile as he headed towards the Waiting Room/Temporary Infirmary. Hayley wasn't one of his flirtations, and she seemed disappointed about it. Heck, she was young enough to be his kid, but efficient to a fault.

Project personnel were going through their daily routines. For the most part, Ziggy was shut down, but still performing routine functions, such as the Links and communication network, not to mention, power, light, and environmental control. A quick glance in Control revealed Gooshie hunched over a keyboard, seemingly oblivious to the Admiral's presence. He'd been persona non grata since Sam had returned. Feeling guilty, maybe, but he wasn't the only one. Al sighed, leaving him to his work, and headed toward the Waiting Room.

In front of the Waiting Room Verbena was wiping something off the front of her shirt. She was dressed casually, jeans and a baggy t-shirt with Don't Panic printed in large friendly letters. He recognized it as something Sam had given her as a joke years before. Instead of friendliness, she greeted Al with a glare.

"He's having a bad day," she growled.

"Nice to see you, too, Verbena." Al rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning. Better her than me, he thought.

"I'm glad you're here, because now I can take a break. You can make him eat his lunch."

Al glanced thoughtfully at her well-worn boots. "Horses, Aren't you afraid those boys over at White Sands might take a shot at you?"

"I've got clearance and if they do, oh well!"

"You," he pointed his index finger at her, "are frustrated."

"Me?" her shoulders slumped. "He's been a regular bear since he woke up this morning."

"Seemed fine at breakfast."

"That's because you're Daddy. He's being good for you. I'm the mean old mama that he doesn't like right now because I bully him into using his appliance. Don't you think for one moment that we haven't noticed you taking it off and helping him eat his food? Wrong, Al. that has got to stop or he'll never recover. He has this strange idea that since you're helping him out he can get away with murder. Would you please not indulge his every whim?"

"I think I'd better, uh, go in and have a talk with him." Al veered cautiously around the angry psychiatrist and entered the room.

Sam was sitting up in bed with the remains of lunch splattered around him. His jaw was set, much as it had been when he was indulging a stubborn streak.

"Hiya, kid." Al took the damp towel by the bed and wiped off the chair before sitting down. "I hear you've been giving the staff a hard time. Not nice, Sam."

Therapy was a wonderful thing, almost a miracle. He could turn his head and glare now, and shrug, which he did eloquently.

"Oh, so it doesn't matter who you dump your food on, eh?" Al leaned forward slightly, his determined look matching Sam's. He leaned down, retrieving the spoon from the floor and the bowl of applesauce from the small table. "Let's try this again."

he took Sam's hand and examined the brace on it. Old news, and still a little complicated and hard to use, but 'Bena had said he must or else. There was a cuff to place the velcro handle of the spoon into on his palm and he did so. "There," he said, half to himself. Sam showed no sign of cooperation.

Frowning, the Admiral took the bowl and set it on the bed where Sam could reach it with the spoon. He braced one side of it with his hand and took Sam's right one with the other. The whole trick to this, Al thought, was to watch those eyes. They were dark with anger now, as if...

In one smooth movement the bowl flew up; Al neatly caught it, but the spoon landed, again, on the floor with a clatter. The older man gripped Sam's good wrist, and pulled the 'sick'man close so that they were nose to nose. "They might put up with that bullshit, but I won't anymore." The face beneath his was still defiant but there was a bit of apprehension in the hazel eyes that hadn't been there previously. "You have to eat, and write, and recover, you ass. If you're sick of this slop, then learn how to eat so you can have some real stuff. I won't indulge your temper tantrums - I can't, Sam." He loosened his grip as Sam's expressive face fell. "This isn't the way you behave and I know you're frustrated and hurt. Don't take it out on other people, kid."

Picking up the spoon, he gently placed it back in the cuff on Sam's hand. With a grimace, Al shook his head at the tears that filling the other man's eyes. "Stop it. Right - now!" The words were almost a shout. "You're not really upset, just angry." Picking up the bowl from his chair, he set it on Sam's lap and curled the man's nearly useless left hand around the base to support it. "I'm going to stand here until you eat every delicious drop. If you do it, you'll have pizza for dinner. Screw Swann, Greg, and anyone else who objects."

With great care, Sam curved his fingers around the spoon. His movements were slow and trembling as he maneuvered the utensil towards the bowl, scooped up a little of the applesauce, and, as if lifting a great weight, brought it up to his mouth. Making a face, or what he could manage, he ate the stuff and went for another spoonful.

"It's Italian for you tonight, Sam." Al slumped in the chair and glanced behind him at Verbena, who he knew was watching.

When lunch was finished, the therapist moved in and Al went to his office to catch up on paperwork. It was exhausting enough to watch Sam try to eat, and he'd sit in on Greg's sessions later, just to let his friend know he was there supporting what he did.


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

"You ought to take up another line of work."

Al made a face at Verbena from his position at the desk and returned to the report he was working on.

"MacMillian?"

"Yeah." He scratched out what he'd written previously and tried to rephrase the whole paragraph. His heart wasn't in it, but it had to be finished. "It's a pain in the butt."

"You did wonders in there." Her smile was enigmatic. "Wanna go ride my horse?"

"Uh, Bena, I don't 'do' horses. That's one of Sam's things, not mine."

"You'll never know until you try."

Tossing the pen down, Al gave her as irritated a look as he could. "Don't quote me back at myself."

"The report can wait, and it's hot, but fun to ride, for a little whole anyway. C'mon, Al."

He gave her as sweet a smile as he could manage. "Go ahead, Dale Evans. Have a good time. I'm ordering Sam a pizza later. Wanna join us?"

Her eyebrows went up. "I didn't think you were being serious."

"He lived up to his end of the deal." Al frowned at the strange look she was giving him. "How bad off is he? Would pizza make him sick?"

"Talk to Dr. Swann about what his stomach can handle, but be careful to keep the pieces small and make it plain cheese. Also, he has a schedule so don't keep him up all night. Got some real news just now from Greg, though."

"Which is?"

"He has limited movement on his left side. In a few more weeks he should be able to really use his hand and walk. Right now, it's a start."

"That's great," Al said fondly. Each achievement was a triumph at this point. He bent his head back to his work.

Verbena began to leave and turned for a moment. "Oh, and I like pepperoni and extra cheese. It'll make Sam crazy but not anymore than he's made me lately." Her smile was impish. "Since you're asking."

With a shake of his head, Al grinned as she left.

Dr. Swann approved the pizza. Al and Verbena took turns feeding Sam small bites, laughing at the grin they got in return. After a while, the psychiatrist left for home and bed, something she hadn't been able to do for a while, and Al was left alone with Sam.

It was nearly like old times; dinner with Sam, having a cigar afterwards, eve though the Admiral knew full well Swann had forbidden it. Sam gave him a disapproving look, but nothing more.

"Tough," Al snarled. "And don't think I'm staying around here all night. Can't. I've got a big deal report to file and it's a pain to write. Recover, why don't you, so you can do some of my work? I wish you were here to grind it out in ten minutes flat."

Sam grimaced, moving his butt around on the bed. His back was really killing him and he had a hard time expressing it to Al. The Admiral was world-renowned for his massage technique and Sam had, at one time, had ample opportunity to have it demonstrated on him - before he'd Leaped.

"Back hurting?" The smile that touched Sam's features made Al feel like he was glowing inside. "See, I know that look, kid. You used to wriggle like a hooked fish some nights; too many hours bent over a computer monitor, or some panel that wouldn't function to your standards." Al pulled the guardrail down and rolled Sam onto his side, his back facing him.

"I've always got time to do this, Sam. Just ask. Nice that we don't need the words, right now anyway." With instinctive feel, Al skillfully massaged the tense muscles under his hands, paying special attention to his neck and shoulders. God, Sam was tight, just a tensed up mess. It made his hands ache to work the stiffness beneath them.

Sam leaned into the fingers as Al worked his neck. This was better than anything, even the rubdowns the nurses and Greg gave him. His friend knew just where to touch and almost melt away the pain and stiffness.

"Your back is in pretty good shape, considering." Al gave his friend a pat as he put the rail in position and moved him to a comfortable sleeping position. "I bet you missed me when you were Leaping around, full time masseur and bottle washer." As he moved away from the bed to sit down Sam reached for his arm and gave his shirt a tug. "What, kid? Another rubdown, or..." The greenish eyes were pleading for understanding. "Is that what you want?"

The longish brown hair flopped over Sam's forehead as he shook 'no'. Another persistent tug.

"My shirt is going to tear right off my back if you keep this up. God, I wish I knew what the hell you wanted. Sam, I'd give you the Moon on a plate if you needed it, but..." The expression that crossed Sam's face was one Al couldn't help but recognize. "Now don't do that! That sick puppy look. You want me to stay here tonight? I got a mess of work, kid." Another 'no'. "Than what..."

With every bit of strength he possessed, Sam drew Al towards him and pulled his body close with his good arm. He'd needed the contact, the warmth and feeling of Al near him. The reality of a good hug, feeling the substantial muscle and bone beneath his hands. He'd been deprived of it for so many years and now he could grab and touch...all the things he couldn't when he was Leaping.

Al reciprocated the gesture, suddenly understanding. With his free hand he re-lowered the rail so he could slide into the bed and pull Sam close. "I should've known you'd want a lot of these," Al said. "I missed the hell out of you, too. Sure I saw you most every day, but that isn't the same as having you home. Christ, I even missed those nights when you'd be in a mood and throw everyone out but me. And yelled, a lot of the time, anyway. I couldn't get you to sleep until you solved whatever the problem was with Ziggy. Once that was done, I'd shovel what was left of you into bed. Of course, I had m days, too." Sam's hand was pressing against his shoulders, almost as if he could finally accept the reality of being home and having him here. "You must be getting better, kid. A week or so ago you could barely lift that arm."

Knowing full well he had to get back to his office and catch some sleep before morning, he broke away from Sam, and eased him back on the bed. "I gotta big deal meeting tomorrow, Sam. Faxing that damn report and off to D.C. for a day." He waved his finger at the look that lit the worried man's eyes. "A day, kid. No biggie. You'll manage and I'll be home in time to tuck you in, like this." He dutifully pulled the blankets up around his patient's chin and patted him on the head. "'Night, Sam. Sleep tight." Turning the light down, he slipped out of the room.

Sam lay awake in the darkness for a while after Al had left. As long as he could he listened to the Admiral's light step in the hallway until the door to his office closed behind him.

The scared feeling was leaving him and he felt much better abut being left alone than he had a week before. Maybe it was the therapy, and his additional strength, but his confidence was at an all time high. Soon, and with lots of hard work, he'd regain his speech and writing abilities. He'd be able to communicate again.

This was the price he had to pay for scientific misadventure. The stroke, and losing so much time. Years, in fact. What had Al told him - he was forty-five years old now. It was so awful, and yet intriguing, that he'd age without knowing it. A mirror would be helpful, bur for some reason the thought of seeing his reflection frightened the hell out of him. He hadn't had to use one yet, the electric razor working quite nicely without a mirror, thank you very much.

His greatest longing at this point was to get to Ziggy and retrieve the data on his Leaps - the results, look up the histories of the 'hosts' discreetly and see what they were doing with their lives. Al had always given him a thumbnail sketch of their future at the end of each leap, but that wasn't enough to satisfy his curiosity. For the millionth time he thought about invasion of privacy, but, in a way, he'd been Them for a while, and it didn't hurt to see what they had done with the chance God had given them.

Well, he'd been the one in control, not Sam Beckett pulling him into each new adventure. There had been times when he thought he'd die, more than once. Regardless, he'd made it, with Al's help and unique maneuvering. Maybe he could perfect the Accelerator so he could use it to leap more specifically, the way they'd planned it originally, before it went out of control.

The alternative was to drop the entire thing, research his results, and go on to another idea. What would the government do if he decided to move on? Would Ziggy fall into their hands, the Project? Out of the question, Sam thought. He'd take his results, erase them from Ziggy's memory, and walk out. the only thing the government men wanted was to use the Accelerator for military purposes, and even though he had a sort of ironclad promise from Those In Charge that it wouldn't happen, he knew it could. He'd been wise to trust no one but Al with the real equations that ran the program to leap. It was frightening to think what the boys in Washington might have planned for his Project, had he not had the foresight to stall their progress. Losing yourself and your life work was one of the prices you had to pay when the government was your financier.

Chapter Four

Five a.m., and Al was just putting the last touches on the 'report from Hell'. When the phone in front of him rang he caught himself before he fell out of the chair in sheer fright. Stubbing out his cigar, he answered the persistent cordless.

His blood ran cold. The press now knew that Dr. Beckett had returned from ... somewhere. The security chief made it clear that his squad would be run ragged this morning. After the call, Al relit the cigar, trying to think what could've happened. He couldn't quite believe that anyone directly involved in the Project would go to the press, thereby risking Sam's privacy and health. They were a pretty loyal bunch, almost like a family. However, there were quite literally hundreds of techs, janitorial staff, and so on, some he hadn't personally hired. Civil service workers.

He hesitated before calling Washington. According to the security chief, the news hadn't been released yet, but Al knew in his heart of hearts that Sam's very name was news, and reporters would double-time it to the wire services the moment they received confirmation.

Weitzman was in a snarly mood, making noises about preparing for work. "Well, get your luggage. We're on the verge of going public, Carl!" Al leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the desk as he spoke. "We got some weasel who spilled the beans on Sam's return and I just got word..."

He was cut off by Weitzman's infuriating calm, cool tones. The words made a line of red creep up from the edge o Al's collar.

"What do you mean you knew this hours ago? Is that supposed to be funny?" Gripping the phone tightly, Al's voice became a near growl. "Get your G-D butt out here, pronto! We need a press liaison and you're IT!" He grinned at the expletives that assailed his ears from the other. Well, the nozzle had learned something from him! "Tough! Get a grip, and grab a jet. Move your ass out here!"

When Verbena arrived on the scene, she found the Admiral hunched over his desk, his body visibly trembling with anger. "I was worried about ducking before I came in," she said in an attempt at levity.

Al cut her off, his voice low and dangerous. "The press leak didn't come from inside the Project. I just got word from a friend in Washington. I still have a few." His head came up, dark eyes bright with intensity and fury. "That rat, Ronnenberg. We proved him wrong so he vented his spleen on the press. The information came straight from his office! Oh, he'll be in hot water with the State Department, but he'll hold his seat in Congress, because he'll win points with the public. Our expenditures poised against the unemployed masses..."

"I think it would be best to tell Sam as soon as possible."

Al sighed, his body untensing at the mention of his friend's name. "I was thinking about that. He's gonna be pissed."

"It'll give him something besides his disability to focus on. The press can't get in here - it's a veritable fortress. He's protected, in that way. Sam is in no shape to make a statement."

"Weitzman, that nozzle, is on his way here to do just that. I'm sort of hoping this all blows over, but forget it. Reporters are leeches, bloodhounds sniffing for everything. If there's a story to be had, they don't know the meaning of privacy. To them 'need to know' is an annoyance and not a command. They'll did 'til they get what they want." He scratched his ear, a habit he had when he was nervous or upset. "Sam's family, though, when this thing breaks full force...Christ, they'll have my head on a plate."

"You know Sam's orders, Al. You had no say over that. Your hands were tied by his instructions and the government saying the Project was Top Secret. You couldn't divulge his whereabouts..."

"His mother and sister - it'll slide with them, after a while, anyway. Tom..." He fidgeted with his half smoked cigar. "He'll go ballistic. I've been feeding him excuses since Sam..."

"And we still don't know what kind of reaction Sam is going to have to his brother being alive. Or any of the changes he's made. Think of the impact this will have on him. I'm not sure if he's ready for it, at this stage. I don't want to see all the work he's put into his recovery wasted because of this."

"They should've never assigned Ronnenburg in charge of the committee in the first place. Weitzman is going to personally get his butt by me the moment he arrives. All I can think about is Sam. How he'll feel - scared, insecure all over again. He's been through enough already."

"We could issue something simple, like a guarded statement saying..."

"I don't know what to do. Weitzman is going to figure out what to say, and he'd better not mess it up. He voted Ronnenburg in, let him handle it."

The hounds of the press hit at six-thirty. Security was tightened, pulling in troops from White Sands and generally closing all roads to the Project. Al argued that it only made them look more suspicious, but secretly agreed it was a lost cause anyway.

In time, Weitzman arrived, and had a hard time getting through the gates, which put him in an even worse mood than he'd been in already.

Al spent most of the morning bouncing between his office and Sam's room, artfully ignoring Weitzman's entrance and subsequent search for said Admiral.

Finally, the budget man/press liaison cornered Al between his office and the water cooler. As calmly as he could, Al sipped at his cup as Weitzman approached him.

"Hiya, Carl."

"You've got a lot of explaining to do." The man towered over Al's smaller frame, but it didn't intimidate the Admiral anymore, not like it had in the beginning. His full dress Naval uniform was a proper reflector for over inflamed tempers and egos like Weitzman's.

"Me?" Al raised his eyebrows, crushing the paper cup in his hand. "You're the one who wanted Ronnenberg. Talk to that jerk about this mess."

"He's claiming innocence. In a sort of roundabout way he accused you."

Al snorted. "Why would I jeopardize the Project and Sam's health for a little item in the paper? You know I'm not a glory hound, Carl. Hell, used to spend most of my energy keeping my name out of the news. NASA is still using the old releases where my name is deleted. I hate publicity. And I hate this." The Admiral's face grew red with anger. "I don't like it when some brass-assed Senator tries his best to get revenge on an injured man. I want his butt on a plate."

"If he's the one who did it, I'll do my best to fulfill your request. Right now, we have more pressing problems." Weitzman's tone became a touch more sympathetic. He admired the Admiral and hadn't really believed the Senator's accusations. "After your call I got an earful from a guy at UPI. They know some details about Dr. Beckett's experiment - but not that he traveled in time. That's just one of their theories. He did something amazing and they want to know what it was. Most of the press corps will be demanding to see Dr. Beckett. What do I tell them?"

"Impossible." Al lit a cigar and puffed angrily. "He's not in any shape for anything, let alone a bunch of caterwauling news nozzles. We're keeping him safely under lock and key from those guys. However, he's being informed of the situation as soon as we figure out what to tell him. His family will want to gain access to the Project. That's going to be unavoidable."

"Will he understand what..."

"He's not stupid or brain damaged. Knows all, sees all, which is why I have to get in there and tell him ASAP. He's probably real curious already."

Carl took a deep breath. "I have a statement of sorts prepared for the reporters at the gate. There must be fifty or sixty men out there. It's not specific, and I had to clear it with the Pentagon - a none-too-happy bunch, there. We're telling them that Dr. Beckett has been working on an experiment dealing with time. That's the statement, and then security will clear them off."

"Like cattle," Al snarled. "I need clearance for Dr. Beckett's family."

"I can't..."

"In a few hours the press and every media organization is going to have Sam's face plastered over their papers and news reports. His family has been playing tag with me and the Pentagon for years. What do you think their first reaction will be when they see Dr. Beckett on the news, knowing full well he's been locked down here in New Mexico forever without contact - and can still manage to make the media jump?"

Al cocked his head to one side, waiting for an answer from Weitzman. With none forthcoming, he continued. "Once they try the old techniques to reach Sam, they'll contact the media, telling them, in no uncertain terms, that we're preventing them from seeing him. Sympathy ploy, and we look like shit. Not to mention destroying Sam's relationship with his family, not that it's in jeopardy now. He loves them, and if they find out from any other source but us that he's back from wherever, hasn't made a phone call or dropped them a card, they'll have nothing to say to him ever again. I need that clearance, Carl, and you know how to get it. It's your say-so, not mine. You owe me that much for this mess."

"I'll make a few phone calls, Admiral."

"Another thing." Al noticed that Weitzman's expression was going from mild annoyance to outright irritation. "His brother will be the one pushing. He's ex-Navy and doesn't back down. Since Sam leaped he's been waiting in here. If you don't get that clearance before this hits the news, he'll be beating doors from here to the Pentagon."

"May I use the phone in your office, Admiral?" the man asked, icily polite.

As Weitzman headed down the hall, Al pondered over how to tell Sam all hell was about to break loose. Verbena had suggested doing it herself, but Al felt he should be the one to tell Sam. The news had to come from him - no one else. The staff psychiatrist had a tendency to tell carefully crafted, 'non-disturbing', stories. After years of feeding his friend 'let's change the subject' lines, Al wanted to be straight with him.


	5. Chapter 5

PART FIVE

It was Saturday and Sam was in the middle of his morning therapy session. Greg was on Sam's left side, helping him squeeze a hard, rubber ball with his weaker hand. Al was impressed and proud of the determination on Sam's face, sweat glistening on his friend's forehead as he went through the exercises.

"Looking sharp, Admiral."

The moment Sam saw Al was in his dress uniform, apprehension chilled his blood. He stopped what he was doing, the ball in his hand falling to the floor. Al wouldn't dress up to deliver a mere report - and wasn't he supposed to have left long ago to do just that? What was wrong?

Neatly, Al caught the ball as it rolled towards him, and went over to the bed. He tossed it hand to hand, finally setting it near Sam. "It's the outfit, isn't it?"

A nod in agreement. Fear niggled hard against Sam's every nerve.

Damn, he knew something was up. Mr. Intuitive. One to one contact, every day for five years, had helped to turn him into a book Sam not only read, but memorized. Al reached down, gripping the other man's hand. "I'll tell you what's going on later. Nothing to worry yourself about." The return grip, Al noted, was practically feather light, being his left hand, but the squaring of the prominent jaw spoke volumes. Al glanced at the therapist. "When will you be finished? I don't want to break his routine."

"Speech work next. We'll be over after that."

Sam made a face, instantly drawing Al's attention from Greg. he pointed at his friend, then, splaying the fingers of his right hand over his chest. The sounds he made were just air expelled, but it was obvious he wanted to know what was going on.

The door to the room opened abruptly. Hayley looked flustered, her eyes on the Admiral. "You have a phone call," she said.

"No rest for the wicked." Al maneuvered his way around Sam's agitation. "Finish the session and calm down. I'll be back as soon as I can, kid."

The minute he was out in the hall he lit a cigar. He was going for the record today.

The man moved like lightning, Hayley quickly observed. "It's the Pentagon," she managed, trying hard to keep up with the older man as he strode to the nearest phone. "They say it's urgent."

As he entered his office, Al stared at his phone, with the tiny red light on the side flashing. For a moment he thought maliciously about leaving the nozzle on permanent hold, but knew it could be about any number of things, and today he couldn't afford another crisis.

Upon concluding what he could euphemistically call a conversation, Al slammed the phone down, hoping he broke the eardrum of the man on the other end.

"Bad news?" Verbena grinned at him from the doorway, once again, her expression fading as soon as she saw the look on Al's face.

He sighed, knowing he had to tell her. "You won't believe this one."

"Try me."

"The assholes want Sam evaluated mentally. Intelligence. Results to be reported to them immediately." His entire body shook in fury. He wanted to put his fist through something again. In lieu of that, he swept the contents of his desk onto the floor. "Damn them."

"All right, Al." She crouched down to pick up the papers that had tossed in anger. "Did they give a reason?"

"Oh, plenty." Al lit the cigar and began to pace. "I could read between the lines. They are intensely interested in Dr. Beckett's well-being and want to make sure he's worth what it's costing them to protect him. The man mentioned that there's this possibility that time traveling scrambled his highly valuable brain cells and they can, conscience free, let the wolves of the press have at him."

"That's cold."

Eyes flashing dark fire, Al paced the room furiously. "What with everything blowing up, the press, worrying about his family... Christ, I can't keep up with every single thing that's hit in the last few hours. I don't want to be in charge here. If I had my way I'd grab Sam and take him somewhere safe. Screw the Project, the Pentagon, and everything else."

"Chill, Al. That's irresponsible thinking. I've got some very simple intelligence tests. What if I..."

"Sam is going to know every reason why he's required to take them, 'Bena. He'll approve of it first before one question is asked of him." Al was practically biting the cigar in half. "I'm telling him about Ronnenburg, the press, everything. They want me out, I can see it coming down the road like a runaway truck. What happens to Sam, then? I can't let that happen because I've got to protect Sam's ass. If I'm out, the nozzle they replace me with could and will care less about his welfare. You see, they want his mind, and they don't give a ditty-damn-goddamn about his feelings on the matter. You do, and I do. That's his shield, dammit, his protection. Us."

"We don't have much time before things erupt. Weitzman is making his statement to the press as we speak."

"Which I should have handled in the first place," Al replied. "And didn't. Can Sam sit in a wheelchair?"

"Well, we haven't done that yet, but I don't see why not, with the proper restraints." Her voice grew suspicious. In her mind's eye she could picture Al taking Sam away from the Project as he'd just threatened, whisking Beckett far away and safe. Not a good idea right now. "What do you have in mind?"

"A ride, Verbena. Not in a car. Outside, me pushing. The fresh air'll do him good. I can't tell him in that...that room. It's too much for him to take lying down." He leaned over the desk and hit the intercom button. "Hayley, take messages for the next hour. If Weitzman shows up, tell him I'm busy. Make him wait."

"You want to take Sam out now?"

"It's the lull in the storm. If we wait much longer, leave him in the dark for a moment longer, it'll only make it more difficult to tell him this later."

'Bena went to get a wheelchair and Al entered Sam's room at the end of the session. Greg grabbed the Admiral's arm as he left, giving him a stern look, his blue eyes narrowed. "I don't know what's up, but Sam is plenty worked up. He couldn't complete his work after you left."

"I'll take care of it." Al crouched by the side of Sam's bed, his friend's worried gaze on him. "Kiddo," he sighed. "We've got problems. Couldn't always be sunshine and rainbows around here. Anyway, we're gonna talk - outside. I'm taking you for a spin. It's about 120 degrees in the shade but you love that stuff. The heat will do you good, and you love the sun. I thought just being outside might make all of this easier. What do you think?"

The words had the expected result. Sam's face lit up like a little child, apprehension still clouding the greenish eyes. He was going out, away from this sterile smelling room. Even if Al had bad news to tell him, it would be away from this place, for a while anyway.

Verbena didn't insist on following them and Al didn't invite her. He could handle Sam, without her guidance or motherly worry. She watched by the back exit of the project as Al wheeled Sam over the level ground to a shady place near a half-enclosed picnic area, complete with wooden tables and benches.

"Greg says in a few weeks you'll be spending a lot of time outside. We used our own money for this little area out here, remember? No taxpayers dollars made this place." Tilting his head back he tried to gauge Sam's expression. It was pleading, Al judged, desiring answers and now.

Carefully, the Admiral knelt by Sam's right side, setting the brakes on the chair. "To begin, kid, we got problems here in River City. Big time." Al kept his tone light. He explained the situation with the press simply, not sugar coating or leaving any details out. "Ronnenberg was the cause. I'm sure of it. I can't get that nozzle from here but someday his ass is mine! You'll be in the papers again, thanks to him. They won't get in here, though, I'll see to that. You'll still have your privacy."

A huge frown crossed Sam's face. He was becoming more 'vocal' with expression than ever before.

Still kneeling by the chair, Al's eyes met Sam's, locking on the worried gaze. "You told me at one time to keep things from your family. That letter you left me when you leaped. Remember?" A sharp nod in answer. Al continued. "I did everything you asked. Your Mom's birthday, Christmas. I called. I sent cards. Signed your name - I'd' a made a good forger. Okay, kid, this is the biggie. I couldn't convince Tom."

Sam bit his lip, but showed no other sign of emotion.

"He's alive, Sam. He's a royal pain in the butt at times ..." He stopped his dialogue, alarmed. Sam was making choking noises, his right hand coming up to touch his chest, as if he were suffocating. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes dark and sad.

He wasn't sick or choking, Al realized quickly. It was emotion. "Tom's alive. He's fifty-one years old, and still as much the big brother as ever. Vietnam didn't improve his disposition and you may not recognize what you see when you meet him. He's not the same, kid. I swear, he's insulting, and one of the most annoying people I know, but he loves you to pieces, Sam. He thinks I'm a horses ass. Your Mom and Kate, though..."

Sam was wiping his eyes with his open right hand. The rest seemed easier, after the initial shock. He could understand this now, the worry on Al's face that morning, the pinched expression he could read so well.

"There's one more thing, Sam. Just got this right before I brought you out here. You're going to blow up, just blow right up, like I did. The Pentagon wants an IQ test from you, ASAP."

Sam's eyes were questioning, not angry.

"Okay, this is the low down and I'm telling you everything so you don't get on my case later. The guy that called said stuff. Had the retrieval impaired your mind? Sort of roundabout questions like that. I told him, of course not! Just because you had a few synapses short out, doesn't mean you've turned into a veg. This nozzle said I wasn't a trained doctor, and the tests had to be on his desk by..." Al's voice trailed off, interrupted by the slow, steady slap of Sam's right hand on the armrest of the wheelchair.

A change had occurred in Sam's face; head tilted forward, eyes alive and angry. Even the expression of intense fury made the expansive features of his face appear almost back to normal. The rhythmic slapping became pounding, as Sam clenched his fist, hitting the padding with intense blows. "Now, kid, settle down. You'll hurt yourself." Al tried to grasp the flailing hand and Sam jerked away, continuing the pounding. "You'll really do some damage! C'mon..."

"Al." Sam turned his head to face his friends astonished look. Jaw clenched with the effort, he repeated the word over and over. "Al, Al, Al."

The Admiral caught and held Sam's right fist, gently easing it open, lacing his fingers through his. His eyes were wide with wonder and amazement. "You can talk," he said softly. "That's great, kid, just great. I...I told Verbena I'd take you away if you wanted. Is that it? Get out of this place and just go?"

"No." Sam shut his eyes tightly, as if in pain.

"It's not the answer, that's for sure. This thing with the test - God, we need this now like a hole in the head. The press thing came on so fast they panicked. We kept the government updated on your condition, all the tests Greg and Beeks did on you. Those nozzles at the Pentagon drew their own conclusions. I don't know where they get their reasoning, kid. It seems to me they're the ones who're imbeciles." Al's voice was almost a snarl. "They used that word, too. Purely a technical term, he said. What an ass!"

The intensity of Sam's eyes made the other man hesitate. The green depths were full of determination. Sam's fingers curled around Al's, almost as bone clenching as they had been when he'd returned home. "My...name..." He took a deep breath. Al was holding his as the words hesitantly fell from Sam's lips. "My name...is S-Sam... Beckett." The sounds were slurred, but Al understood why his friend had said them.

"You're all there, kid," Al said, his voice breaking. "I've known that right along."

The infamous Beckett temper hovered over the darkening expression like a storm; tempests and lightning bolts. "Talk to me, Sam. You've been saving up for a pissed off explosion. For five years I've watched this boy scout do his duty. Blow up!" The hand in Al's was trembling with rage, as was the rest of the man's body.

Jerking against the canvas restraint that kept him from falling forward, Sam let out a sound between a snarl and a scream. It took the very breath from Al's body. He thought he'd heard grief in every form, anger... As Sam twisted against the chair, Al eased the furious man to him, rubbing the small of his back in a circular motion. The younger man struggled for a moment before accepting and nestling into the hug.

"That's it, Sam. Let it out." Another unearthly cry broke the stillness of desert air. Al held his friend as tight as his struggles would allow. "All the leaps, all the shit you went through. Kid, kid, I know." Al caught a glimpse of Verbena's anxious face at the doorway of the building but she made no move to interfere. The sounds Sam was making worked down to a low and desperate gasping. "Calm down. First of all, I know the real you is in there. You feel better?" Sam nodded sharply, his jaw jutting, lower lip slightly pouted. "Still mad?" Another affirmative. "Damn good, Sam. You'll need that. You want to take that test?" A definite negative, accompanied by an almost inaudible 'no'. "You won't then. Up their ass."

Hayley appeared at the doorway with Verbena. She was waving a piece of paper, and by the look on her face wasn't a party invitation. "Duty calls, pal. You gonna be okay with 'Bena?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed.

"Ain't that a kick in the butt! Wait til she gets a load of you!" Al's eyes were shining, proud of Sam, overjoyed that he could finally communicate. "Gotta go, kid." He stroked the long brown hair quickly and motioned Verbena over.

Al caught her halfway, swinging her around. "He's talking and pissed. Keep him that way.

As Al ran into the building, she shook her head and went to Sam. Resting her arm over his shoulders like a conspirator, she grinned into his lively gaze. "I bet you think he oughta be in my line of work."

"Al." Sam grinned as he said the name.

Chapter Five

Breezing by Hayley, Al half-ran towards his office.

She kept up as best as she could. "Sir, Mr. Weitzman has gone, but he called Washington before he left. He told me to have you turn on your television."

Following the Admiral into his office she shuddered at the look that crossed his angry face. "I took the liberty of digging out that small portable you keep around. I tuned it to the satellite..."

CNN, Al noted, leaning over his desk, eyes on the screen. When the world needed news, CNN was there. Whether you wanted it or not.

"It's Dr. Beckett's brother, sir. They said they were going to have a live interview in five minutes."

"We're switching live to Terre Haute, Indiana."

As promised, Weitzman had gotten the security clearance through. Al's eyes narrowed as the TV image changed from the impassive anchor person to that of Tom Beckett. Brother or no, he thought, I'll skin you alive if you make one mistake.

The crowd of reporters around Tom seemed not to ruffle a hair on his head. Calm and cool, Beckett wore a confident grin, about to board a plane. Age had mellowed his looks, the blond hair now steel gray, character lines around his eyes, and a frightengly cold smile.

"How long has it been since you've seen your brother?"

"Too long." His tone was almost sarcastic. "Seems the powers-that-be have finally given me permission to visit him. I haven't seen him for five years. Our mother is ill, and she asked me to go to him, make sure he's alive."

Al had told Sam about his mother's heart condition, and it was hard to tell how he'd taken the news. It enraged the Admiral to hear Tom use Mrs. Beckett's illness as a sympathy ploy.

"What kind of research is Dr. Beckett working on?"

"Here it comes," Al muttered.

"He's been working on an experiment, or so I understand. I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I have a plane to catch."

Sighing in relief, Al fell back against his chair. He gave Hayley a pensive look as she switched the TV off.

"Three hours, sir. We can send a car, with security."

"Keep the press away. I want advance men in there before his plane lands, even before I arrive. He's expecting trouble from me, and I want to squelch that right off."

"Begging your pardon, Admiral, but I would assume you and Dr. Beckett's brother would get along quite well. You and the doctor have been good friends for so long..."

"Tom Beckett hates my guts, Hayley. Right now I don't know what to predict he'll do next. He's out for my blood for keeping Sam away from him; at least, that's how he's perceived the situation. He doesn't realize that the wrong words, said at the wrong time, could not only destroy the Project, but kiss his brother's dreams goodbye."


	6. Chapter 6

PART SIX

There were no reporters at the gate, thanks to the efficiency of the security squad. The observant eyes of the press would've loved to get their claws into Al about now. His staff car had been loaded with security police, not to mention the ones who'd met him at the airport in Alamagordo. Maybe he was overdoing it but he wanted the press kept away, and as far out of Tom's reach as possible. He knew what a tool the media was, and how Sam's brother could use it if he was angry enough.

He met him with silence, and the dead cold gaze that reflected from the almost gray eyes proved intimidating, not unlike others who had hated him.

Maybe he'd soften up, once he knew how ill Sam was. As they made it through the obstacle course of the airport, Al realized with a sinking feeling that security might be at its best, but the press always came through. He could ignore the shouted questions, but not the flashes from the cameras.

Security did their job professionally, not allowing one reporter access to Tom Beckett. As they entered the secure area and the shouts of the press faded behind them, Al offered to Tom's bag but the other man kept it gripped tight. Beckett turned on him wordlessly, animosity instant, jaw squared, mouth thinning...

The mental wrestling match continued; down the concourse, through another brief defensive field of reporters, and out to the VIP parking lot. Al slipped into the back seat with Tom. Their driver was an expert, easily evading the more enthusiastic reporters as they drove out onto Highway 54.

"I expected Sam at the airport," Tom said, finally breaking the icy silence. "He's busy, I suppose."

"You could say that." Obviously, Weitzman hadn't informed him of Sam's condition.

"Why, all of a sudden, he's deemed to give me an audience, is beyond me."

"Cut the sarcasm, Lieutenant." Al bit the words out. He glanced over at the younger man. "You hate my guts. I know that and accept it. Your brother has been involved in a Top Secret experiment for the past three years."

"Time travel," Tom snorted. "I, my mother, and Kate are supposed to believe that stuff? Your Mr. Weitzman gave me a thumbnail sketch and I damn near laughed in his ear." He fairly snarled as he spoke. "Admiral, that was a childhood fancy of his way back. He's older, but still playing games. His family has never been more important than his Project. Three years is a long time to not hear your brother's voice. Or get a letter from him."

"It couldn't be helped." Al shut his eyes briefly, trying to keep his anger in check. "He was traveling in time. All he wanted was to come home to his family."

I'm really trying, Sam, he silently added.

"I'll bet." Tom's hands twisted the handle of his flight bag, his face clearly showing the pain within. "Our mother is dying, Admiral. I've left messages to that effect with you for the past year to let him know of her condition. A reporter told me he's been back for a month. Why hasn't he called? I can see why he'd avoid me, but Mom needs him. She wants nothing more in the world than to see Sam one more time."

"You don't get the whole picture, Lieutenant."

"I'm not under your command, Admiral. The Navy hasn't owned my ass for over twenty years now, so knock off the commander routine."

"Your brother," Al said with icy calm, "He's..."

"What's the excuse of the day, Admiral?"

Tom's marked sarcasm was nearly pushing Al over the edge. A small part of him wanted to kick the jerk's butt out into the desert and let the snakes have at him. "Sam has had a stroke, direct cause of us brining him back from...where he was. He's under a doctor's care and is doing fine, considering."

The belligerent look let Sam's brother's face instantly, replaced by shock. "My God, he's only forty-eight years old! Strokes happen to old people. What the hell did he do to himself?"

"I'm the one who gave the order," Al said quickly, wanting to take that part of the weight off Sam's shoulders, at least in his brother's eyes. "We had to bring him back or let him die. He's alive now, and improving daily, health-wise. It's taken every medical staff officer, but he's going to make it."

"You..."

"I had to make the decision." Al said the words in his Admiral's voice, crisply hiding the deeper pain inside. "You can discuss his physical condition with Dr. Matthews, but he is not to have you laying a guilt trip on him - not now. He's still recovering." Tom seemed to have calmed, listening intently to what Al had to say. "The stroke affected his left side. He's able to say some stuff, not much yet, but he's getting there. Physically, he can't take you on now, or give you a swift kick in the ass."

"So, he's satisfied his own ego, made his time machine, and now practically died using it?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Al wanted to tell this infuriating man everything, about how Sam had given his own soul up to save him, but the other man wasn't prepared for a revelation like that. "In plain words, put your attitude in a sock, Mr. Beckett. You're damned lucky the clearance was arranged so you could see him."

"Thank you, Admiral, Sir!" Tom twisted in the seat, hands still working the strap on his luggage. "In had to practically go to the President to see my own brother. Who did he ask for, Admiral? When he was hurting did he want me? Has he even wanted to see me, or have you been his guardian angel, as always?"

"is this a competition thing, then?" He met Tom eye to eye. "Listen, you fool, your brother loves you to pieces, more than life itself, and that, fella, is a simple fact. If he knew you for the horse's ass you are at this moment, he'd knock your block off. I may be his best friend, but you're family - and kiddo, that rates numero uno in his book."

"Ahead of his Project?" Tom flung himself away from the probing dark eyes.

"He's a scientist, and many has been the night when I had to drag him kicking and screaming from his work. Yeah, I had that particular duty, and it was something you wanted. I'm sorry, I'll apologize for being a part of his life, if that's what you want."

"I guess I should be grateful to you." Bitterness laced his words. "You've taken care of him. He warned us, called the family together around the time we lost touch. Every week, like clockwork, he'd phone us, no matter what. The Project was coming to a conclusion, he said. Wanted us to know he would be out of touch with the family for a while. Rely on Al, he said, if you need me. That seemed to set with Mom. She likes you, was happy that you were here for him. I hated the idea, and I guess I made that fairly plain, until you started sending the letters. It meant a lot to Mom and Katie, to know you were speaking for him. Damn it, Sam should've..."

"Understand this. Please," Al reasoned. "Once he was in the streams of time, or whatever, we tried for years to bring him back. Something kept us from grabbing him." He didn't want to bring up the theology question; simple and straight forward explanations for now. "He had memory loss and couldn't help. This last shot was a one in a million, but it worked."

"He had a stroke."

"Yeah." Al pulled a cigar out, and debated lighting it.

Tom sighed, feeling the angry pressure dissipate from his chest. "You seem to set me off. Sam told me that you and I are too alike. There were times when I'd be in the same room with you and we'd go at it like kids. Sam would always split us up."

Al had no memory of that particular incident, but considering their current relationship, it wasn't hard to believe.

"I'll have to take responsibility for him, of course."

The impact of Tom's statement hit Al head on. "What?" he roared, his eyes blazing.

"We'll move him to a proper hospital, take care of him there. You can't keep him from his family, Admiral. Now, in his condition, he can't fight against me. I can make that choice for him, now."

"No way, bucko." Al shoved his fury down and out. He had to play the upper hand in this conversation before it went into left field. "I have power of attorney. Sam has control, and know exactly what he wants. He's not a vegetable, or a child, and our medical unit is as good as any in the country. You can't take him from us."

"We'll see. Once he has to decide between his family and his Project he'll see the light." Infuriatingly calm, Tom turned to give Al one piercing look. "He's coming home with me."

The rest of the ride was done in silence. Tom kept his distance from the Admiral, and Al pointedly riveting his gaze at the scenery, trying desperately to think his way out of this one.

They were met by Verbena the moment they entered the Project. She approached them hesitantly, and introduced herself to Tom, who seemed suddenly polite to the point of annoyance.

"Admiral," Verbena said, keeping her voice carefully professional. "I need to speak to you privately."

"I'd like to see my brother," Tom said quickly. His face was set, his attitude speaking louder than words. He was budging an inch.

"You can wait five minutes, or is that a stretch for you?" Al snapped, not even Verbena's calming hand on his arm keeping the fury out of his voice.

"Whatever you say, Admiral." Tom leaned against the wall, his face set in perfectly peaceful lines.

You haven't won, hot-shot, not on a bet. Al turned on his heel to follow the psychiatrist.

"Oil and water," she remarked, closing the door of the office behind them.

Al faced her, leaning over his desk. It seemed safer to be behind it. "What now?"

"Sam wants you to be with him when Tom comes in. He's not admitting it, but he's afraid. I get a lot of noncommittal answers from him, but oh, is he talking! Whatever you did out there broke the dam open. It's hard to understand the words, and pretty basic, but it's speaking, and that, Admiral. is fantastic."

"At least he can speak for himself. That'll help." Al grimaced at the worried look that crossed Verbena's face. "Tom Beckett wants to take Sam away. To bum-fuck Egypt, Indiana. He's going to try to play games with Sam's head - who-do-you-love-best time."

"God."

"No kidding. I have to maintain power of attorney. We've got to watch every word he says to Sam. Damn it, the Tom Beckett - before, wasn't this cold bastard. I might have liked him."

"Before time changed and he lived through Viet Nam." She sighed, tapping her fingers on the desk top. "I can only tell you what I know. He's always been this way, angry and jealous. Even Sam told me that tom changed after his tours in 'Nam. He frightened people who knew him before."

"Well he's not going to intimidate Sam." Al headed for the door. "You bring Tom in after I've gone to be with him. Not before."

"al." Her voice made him hesitate, waiting impatiently. "Keep your own mouth shut. If Tom gets too abusive or he upsets Sam, out he goes. If you start up with Tom, you're out, too."

"Got it," Al sighed.

"Just one more thing, then go." An edge grew in her voice. "Sam's speech problem was not aphasia. That is, his speech center was not affected by the interference. It was stress, Al, pure and simple. If something works him up, he might stop talking again, and I don't know how we'll bring him out of it."

"Terrific. Damn this whole mess," Al mumbled, as he headed out the door.

Al hesitated at the window before entering Sam's room. His friend was sitting up in bed, looking lost and a lot more like the living than he had a few hours before. Both hands were cradled in his lap and his head was bent over them as if he were thinking things through.

"Hi, kid." Al walked in and was rewarded by a hesitant grin from the man on the bed.

"Al." Sam reached out with his right hand, grasping the older man's as soon as he offered it.

Al pinched his lips together, wanting to make this somewhat easier for Sam. Impossible. He looked into the questioning gaze, contented at the peace that dwelled there. "Sam, Tom is here. Your brother. He'll be in this room pretty soon."

But Tom is... Sam's mind reverberated the words he'd repeated to himself like a litany before he'd changed time. His brother had died, he had! But, he, Sam Beckett, had changed that. By saving Tom's life however, he'd dumped his best friend into a hell hole for three extra years, and had killed Maggie.

Shaking his head, Al kept his gaze even as he watched the play of emotions on Sam's face. "Listen to me, kid. It's okay. All in the past. It did good, in a strange sort of way. I think I'm a better person for it - God, Sam!" The tears were right on the edge. Please, 'Bena, give me time. He's in no shape for Tom right now. "You have to pull yourself together, Sam. You'll make it. I was there, too. I carry a little of the responsibility for all of this."

"Yes." Sam blinked once, slowly, as if concentrating his thoughts.

"Tom can't see you like this. They'll be here soon." Al helped Sam to a more comfortable position, easing him back against a pile of pillows. "He's upset, Sam, with you, me, the Project. I have a feeling once he sees you he'll cool off, but if he doesn't and he gets personal - we'll kick him down the hall."

"Don't leave me."

The words were breathed, somewhat short of a whisper. Memories of Havenwell, and the desperate situation there, tightened Al's throat. He reinforced his grip on Sam's hand, something he couldn't give him that time, and blinked back the tears that threatened to come to his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere." He chuckled softly at the look that passed over Sam's face. "No door to close behind me here, kid."


	7. Chapter 7

PART SEVEN

Verbena paused Tom before the observation window before she allowed him to enter Sam's room. She watched his intense gaze and saw emotions flicker across his face, replaced by anger at the sight of Al near his brother.

"I want to be alone with him."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Beckett. Technically, Sam is my boss and his orders are law. He specifically requested the Admiral's presence and I can't deny him that. Let's go in, shall we?"

Rising from the chair as Tom and Verbena entered, Al moved around to the back of the bed, putting his hand securely on Sam's shoulder. He could feel tremors pass over his friend's body as Tom neared them. "It's okay, Sam," he said softly.

Tom seated himself, gazing at his brother in shock and dismay. Was this the same vital, intensely alive man he'd seen only three years before? The signs of stroke had altered Sam's strong face; he looked older than his age.

"Little brother?" Tom's voice cracked as he reached for Sam's hand.

Releasing his breath, Sam let himself look at the apparition sitting next to him. His brother, his own flesh and blood that he'd last seen in a bar somewhere in Asia. This brother was older, he noted with confusion, suddenly realizing it had been more than twenty-five years ago. He couldn't force words from his throat, closed with emotion.

Tom pulled his brother into a hug, squeezing with every bit of strength he possessed. "I'm here." After a few moments he pulled from Sam's grasp, keeping his hands on his shoulders. "Dr. Beeks says you can understand what I say to you. I'm taking you home, Sam. You need a real hospital, with your family around you."

"Tom..." Al's voice was a warning.

He ignored the Admiral entirely. "We want you back, Sam. With your family. Once we get you well, you can come back to the farm for a while. Mom, Jackie, and the kids, fresh air, just being in your old room again. God, Mom's made it a living landmark to you. Just like you left it. What do you think?"

Jackie? Kids? Sam looked to Al for guidance, his eyes frightened and confused.

"Don't look at him, Sam!" Tom reached over and turned his brothers' face towards his own. "You can make decisions. Your family has been deprived for three years, and we want you home."

Al touched Sam's shoulder, gently drawing him back against the pillows. "Take it easy, Tom," he said, his voice low and careful. "Don't do this."

"He's my brother and I'll decide for him from now on." He clenched Sam's hand tightly as if by his touch he could make him understand. "We miss you, Sam. Mom... She hasn't been the same since you've been gone."

It was the hardest thing that Sam had been forced to think about since his return. His heart was breaking with the effort. Sam twisted out of Tom's grip, his eyes wide and suddenly angry. He struggled to get the words out. "Not leaving," he managed, finally.

"That's real good, Sam." Tom froze, his gaze pure ice. "You know about Mom."

"Yes." Sam's jaw tightened, knowing what would come next. Beeks had told him his mother was ill.

"She's got a bad heart, Sam. I know you aren't ready to hear these things but it has to be said. She might not live longer. She's been with Jackie and me since her first attack. God, Sam, all she wants is to see you again." His voice became firm and angry. "You can't stay in this place. You've made it your tomb, with people who only care about your mind and what you can do with it. Your family loves you for yourself."

"Stop it now!" Al braced Sam's shoulders, alarmed at the look entering Sam's eyes. It was panic, and tears. "All you're doing is hurting him."

"Stay out of this, Admiral!" Tom turned his attention back to his brother. "One way or another, I'm taking you home. You'll see it's for the best."

"Who do you think..."

Before Tom could get the words completely out, Verbena silenced him with a look. "I warned you..." She gripped Tom's arm, easily levering the surprised man away from the bed and her agitated patient. "This is no way to start a reunion. I think we should go to the cafeteria and talk."

Tom practically tore out of her grasp. "I don't need a psychiatrist!" He gripped the handrail of the bed, meeting Sam's gaze sternly. "I need my brother to listen to reason."

"Reason?" Sam gritted the word out, glancing from Al's protect-mode expression to his brother. He was torn between accepting the guilt, going to his family or doing what he wanted, namely, staying here. Control, Verbena had told him. He had to be the one in command, not Tom.

Seemingly, Al was the only one who noticed the subtle change in Sam's expression. It was that stubborn look, Al thought, not moved by dynamite, Beckett's eyes twin slits of stony green, ready for a fight.

It was no mean feat to sit up in bed, and Sam managed. He locked gazes with his brother, squaring his jaw. There was a twinkle in Al's eyes belying his stern expression. The firm grip on his shoulder made things easier.

Tom Beckett was a stranger to him, now. He'd gone through hell to keep him alive, almost like a dream. Here, standing in front of him, was proof that what had occurred was all too real. Somehow, he comfortingly felt both time-lines merge into one. Tom had been dead in one, alive in the other. After Vietnam, Tom had been...different. Cold, devious, and not at all the buddy, best friend, mentor he'd been before. That, too, would be a weight he would have to carry.

"You've been home a month, or so I'm told. I was upset that you didn't call, but considering your condition, I can understand." Tom pressed his lips together, glancing coldly at Al. The Admiral was keeping his eyes on Sam, ignoring Tom. "It took the press nearly breaking into this place to get your so-called friend there to let me in. Did you know he wasn't allowing your family access to you, or was that done behind your back?"

"Now one damned second!" Al was about to add a few more expletives to what he wanted to say when Sam's right hand came up and gently grasped his wrist. The look the younger man gave him was silencing, and begging for peace. Al straightened, mentally biting his tongue against the flood of words he wanted to direct at Tom.

"What is it, Admiral?" Tom was infuriated by the communion he couldn't help but notice between his brother and Al. "Just because..."

"Tom - shut up!" The words were said haltingly, barely above a whisper, effectively stopping his brother's comment in a second. "I...am...staying here. Not leaving. Mom...I can call. Explain."

The iron seemed to slip out of Tom's eye at Sam's words. There was one more thing he could use that might change things. "I could get power of attorney over you and there'd be no choice, Sam. In your condition I could have you declared incompetent. It's a drastic measure, but..." Tom sighed, looking towards the stricken face in front of him. "I want you home. It's for your own good."

"Do you...really want to do that to me?" Betrayal was evident in Sam's expressive greenish eyes. "I don't think..."

Sighing, he squared his shoulder. "I could do this, little brother."

Sam made a decision, as difficult as it was for him to do. He had to be alone with Tom, to prove he could fight on his own. "Al?"

The man at his shoulder could see the struggle in his friend's eyes, an effort to force out each word. "What, Sam?"

"I'll be okay."

"I know that," Al said firmly, directing a hard look at Tom.

"I want to talk to my...brother. Alone."

"Sam, I don't think that..."

"Please." Sam tilted his head back to meet Al's concern. His eyes pleaded for understanding.

Al tightened his lips, glancing at the triumphant expression on Tom's face. You think you won, you jerk! "You need us, call, kid. Got that? We'll be right outside the door."

"Yes," Sam replied, his gaze redirecting back to meet his brother's gaze.

Al edged out of the room with Verbena.

"He wants to tell him he traveled in time."

Al glanced at the psychiatrist, shrugging. "It's Sam's decision. I'll stand by whatever he does." Lighting a cigar was a relief. "It won't make a difference. Tom will still think both Sam and I are nuts or deluded. I don't think he could believe anything either of us tell him now." He kept his steady gaze on the window, watching like a hawk for any change in Sam's position or expression. He seemed calm, listening impassively as Tom spoke, probably pleading his case. Sam's lips moved, but his voice was still quiet and Al couldn't hear the words.

"I had a talk with Dr. Matthews after our patient started speaking this afternoon. He thinks that Sam's right brain is compensating for what his left can't do. Whatever is happening, he's recuperating at an amazing rate. Greg wants him up on canes as soon as possible. Sam hates the wheelchair.

"He told you that, I take it."

"Certainly did. Said, and I quote, 'I want to walk'."

"That's great," Al said softly. Soon Sam would be back to his old self, active, puttering around with Gooshie, working with him on Ziggy.

"Al, I think you'd better get over here."

Verbena's voice held an underlying tension, her eyes gazing into Sam's room through the window. "It's Tom. He's..."

Al skidded into Sam's room, ready to take on just about any situation Tom could dish out. The elder Beckett was standing over the bed, his body bristling with fury, fists clenched at his side.

"No!" The cords on Sam's neck stood out as he shouted. He was sitting straight up in bed, bracing himself on the mattress with his right hand.

"I'm taking you home. Now. I see you've really gone off the deep end, Sam. You can't stay here with these people, in this place. It's only making you crazier than you already are."

In one swift motion Al grabbed Tom by the back of his jacket and pulled. He might be smaller in stature but he was strong enough to easily steer Tom from the room and into the corridor.

"What the hell do you think you're..."

Al blocked Tom from re-entering Sam's room. "It's in the best interest for Sam's health to keep him from becoming agitated. He doesn't need this crap from you, of all people. I won't allow it."

"You'll have no choice, Admiral!" Tom's voice and manner became quietly dangerous. His eyes were icy, his thin mouth determined and stubborn. "My God, he's gone over the deep end. You people are indulging it! Time travel!" He shook his head abruptly, as if to clear his mind. "He needs a proper hospital, so he can receive the care he needs to make him whole again."

"He told you something. What?" Al's gaze narrowed.

"Some crazy stuff, about Thanksgiving, 1969. Can't be, no way. Said he was home with us. Well, of course, he was, but he was only a kid. Not traveling in time, like he said, switching places with..."

"I was there, too."

"Stop it!" Tom snapped the words out, trying to keep himself from total explosion. "Do you think for one moment I believe this?" You are trying like hell to convince the government, and the public that he actually built a time machine? It didn't' work, did it, Admiral? It left him broken and bleeding and you've been hiding him here til he recovered enough for visitors. Or, maybe, he went insane and you've kept that hidden. It's gone past eccentricity this time."

"Not only did he travel in time, but I was with him. You can call me crazy, and take it right up to the Pentagon, but it won't shake. I was the Project Observer, and kept his tail out of more than one frying pan. There's not a damn thing you can do to change things. I don't know exactly what Sam told you, but it stands to reason that whatever he said was the truth. That man does not lie, and I'll stake my life on that."

Tom slumped against the window, his face still determined. "You're both insane. I'm taking Dr. Beckett home, Admiral. He's my brother and I've got certain legal rights."

"And I have an irrevocable power of attorney." Al rocked back and forth on his heels, trying not to smirk. "Verbena?"

Sighing, the woman came forward. She'd much rather have just observed the conversation than to be drawn into it. "Sam had the custodial rights, in case something like this should happen, put into the Admiral's hands. You could try to revoke it, but you'll be in court for months. By then, Sam will have sufficiently recovered to live on his own, and deal with you himself."

Tom glanced from one face to the other and stalked off. Al motioned the security man to follow, to keep Tom in line and out of places that he had no business going into.

"I'm going to check on Sam," Al said to Verbena. "You keep an eye on Papa Bear there."

"Thank you very much." She crossed her arms over her chest. "You owe me one."

"Several, but never mind. If he wants my attorney's number, give it to him. Westin will give him an earful." Jamie Westin, best legal mind in the world, would handle any obstacles Tom Beckett tried to throw in front of them. He gave the woman a quick grin, entering Sam's room.

Sam had his good arm curled over his stomach, huddled in a lump on the bed.

Easing onto the side of the mattress, Al looked at his friend's face anxiously. "You okay?"

Sam nodded, his mouth tightly shut. Tears of frustration curled down his cheeks, dripping onto his nightshirt. His right hand was a fist, pressing into his side, squeezed tight. He felt so powerless, and frustrated, at his brother, at the Leaps that had separated them and made them strangers. Fate had turned the corner on him once again.

"I saved him, Al." There was the slightest of hesitations between Sam's words, as synapses connected like a faulty phone line between phrases.

"You didn't tell him that, did you?"

"No." Al's hand gently rubbing his back made him relax, releasing some of the stress. He allowed his friend to ease him back on the pillows and settle him in comfortably. "I...told him I used the Accel..." Struggling for the longer words took more effort than he had left. "You know..."

"Tom patronized you when you said this?"

"Yes. He wants to take me away, Al. I don't know him."

"It isn't going to happen, Sam. I'm your legal guardian, and if he tries to revoke that, I'll kick his butt in court."

"Why can't it be like it was?" Sam barely whispered the words.

"I tried to tell you what he was like, Sam." Al fingered a cigar but didn't dare light it. "I thought maybe he'd mellow out once you came back." Al didn't like the tortured look that crossed Sam's face. "Don't regret saving him. You actually gave the guy a great gift. He has a wife, a family. Jackie and the kids, remember?" He smiled at the short nod of the head. "God, your parents' farm is still in the family because Tom chose to take it over after your Dad died. You love that place."

"I ... love him, Al."

"If he wasn't so stiff-necked he'd tell you the same. I'm not going to let him take you away from us. Take it slow, right now, just let him play out his line. He's trying to adjust to this new stuff, too, I guess."

"Al." The greenish eyes questioned, a tiny glint of fear in them. "What else did I change?"

"There's not much to say, Sam. Yeah, you changed a lot of things, and Ziggy is still trying to assimilate all that information. We're doing updates on everyone, from your first leap to the last. When we get that data it goes into your lap."

"Thank you, Al."

"For what?"

"Honesty?"

Al tilted his head to one side, a very Sam-like gesture that he'd subconsciously picked up from the other man. "Don't mention it, kid." He shrugged. "I'll send 'Bena in with you and go catch up with your brother and try to calm him down."

"Good luck." Worried eyes watched as Al left. He couldn't help but think how much of his best friend's life he'd taken up in the last weeks, not to mention while he was leaping. At this moment it didn't sound bad to think of Al taking him away from all this. Just the two of them, far away. Being out in the sun earlier had stirred another longing in him. Fresh air, hours baking in that desert furnace. His gaze fell on the canes that Greg had brought in that day, leaning against a far wall. They were his key to activity and movement, a normal life again. He slammed his good right fist against the bars of his cage, the guardrail of the bed. With all of his heart he wanted to be in his control room, the mind center of the Project, dissecting the information as fast as Ziggy could spew it out.

Before Verbena went into Sam's room she watched Al. He was leaning against the wall outside of the office. A look of pain had briefly passed over his face, just before he'd rested against the wall. He wasn't doing well, physically. The strain of the press and one Tom Beckett could push his elevated blood pressure right over the top. She debated briefly if she should go to Greg and ask his advice, then tossed that idea away. Later, after she'd been with Sam, there would be time for that.

Hayley came out of her cubicle and handed her boss a sheaf of computer printouts. Al smiled at her as she left and glanced over the papers. All in order. Good.

Tom glanced up from his phone call, his eyes narrowing. "I'll call you back," he said into the receiver. Turning off the cellular, he gave the Admiral a questioning glance. "I've got my lawyer on it," he told the older man sharply.

"I have the papers here, that Sam drew up before he...did what he did." Al handed them over to Tom, keeping his face carefully neutral. "All very legal. We don't have to do this."

After reading over them carefully, Tom placed the sheets of paper in front of himself in a neat stack, his shoulders sagging. He had a limited knowledge of the legal terms, but it all seemed in order. His eyes shifted to meet Al's dark ones.

Taking a seat opposite the younger man, Al tried to speak his mind as carefully as he could without starting a fight. "You have your mother to be caring for, Tom. What are you going to do with her and Sam? He needs specialized therapy - we have the best here. You can speak to Dr. Matthews. He's been performing miracles in Sam's room. I can give you and your family unlimited access to your brother. I know your mother, Tom. She'll be overjoyed just to know he's alive and will be with her in another month or so."

Tom took in the man in front of him. His face was gray, eyes weary from lack of sleep. It seemed everything Al was doing was geared to taking the best care possible of his brother. "You won't let him be a prisoner here?"

An odd question, Al thought. "For Christ's sake!" Al pulled the cigar from his mouth and shoved it in the ashtray. "I'm his best friend! He has me twisted around that little finger so tight I can't squeak, although I'd never admit that to his face. We all care about him here, like, I guess, a sort of odd family. They tell me he'll be able to travel in a couple of weeks, and he can call your mother tonight, before you leave.

"Please have a good visit with him." Slowly, Al pulled the cigar from his lips, his expression a warning. "He's carrying a lot of guilt right now. You planted some stuff on him he might not forget for a while. Call your mother, let him talk to her. That will do him more good than you can imagine."

"If we mean so much to him, why did he make you his guardian?"

Al's eyes rose to meet the other man's through a haze of cigar smoke. "I don't call him the Wacky Professor or eccentric, or any of the terms you use to describe his personality. Not to mention, I think I understand him. His whys and wherefores. He's not some little kid blowing up his Dad's Studebaker."

"C'mon, Admiral! It's a tease. We've been calling him stuff like that since he was a kid! Just a family joke, that's all. We'd never hurt Sam on purpose."

"One of Sam's esteemed colleagues called him a name like that and I had to keep the kid from hitting the guy. Words hurt when you're different. Around his family, Sam is carefully polite, smiles at the little digs. I've seen it. You have to watch that, and the things you say to him. He has a disability - and it's called Genius, and he doesn't want to be treated oddly because of it."

Tom looked stricken. "I...I didn't realize we were doing that to him. We've been such a close family, and Sam...well, he's been the odd man out all these years."

"He's your brother. Why don't you go down the hall and get to know him better? It'll be good for both of you. Listen to what he says and believe him."

"Even the time travel stuff?"

"It happened. He did it. You'll be with him in Sweden when he gets his next Nobel for it." The startled look in Tom's eyes betrayed his real thoughts. "You believe, don't you?"

"I think so." Tom glanced at the doorway. "I want to talk to him some more about Thanksgiving. About me, what was said. What wasn't."

"Take it easy on him, Tom." Al remained seated as the other man hurried from the room. Those two would sort the painful things out and become better friends for it. In theory, it had to work.


	8. Chapter 8

PART EIGHT

Chapter Six

Tom left a few hours later, making plans and assisting his brother in making the emotionally charged phone call to their mother. Sam shook so hard that Al was afraid he'd drop the phone and, thankfully, Tom didn't seem to notice the panic in the shaded green eyes when Sam was asked to speak to his mother. Fortunately, she didn't allow Sam to get a word in edgewise, and the phrases he used were relatively simple and easy to say with his healing voice.

Once Tom was safely in a car and on his way to the airport, Al could finally sigh gratefully in relief. When he returned to Sam's room, the patient was occupied with the television Greg had finally allowed him to have. He seemed entranced with the news report, a tiny frown appearing between his eyes when his name was mentioned by the anchor.

"Never did like publicity, did ya, kid?" Al strolled over and sat down in his chair, grinning at the rolled eyes and overall 'spare me' expression on Sam's face. The network was replaying some age-old interview Sam had done with David Letterman some years back. Amused, Al watched as Sam tried to explain the string theory to the wisecracking host.

"Stupid people tricks, eh?" His smile faded as he glanced over at the man on the bed. Sam was composed, his frown dark and deep as he watched the old tape.

"Long time ago," Al said teasingly, grinning. "You met Cher - what a hot number! Makes me think of some of those snake dancers in Tijuana. The things they could do with reptiles..."

Sam cocked his head indulgently at his friend. "Al," he groaned.

"Hey, she took quite a liking to you - asked me for your phone number, which was damn insulting, considering I was trying to pick her up at the same time."

Tom Brokaw was highlighting Sam's past achievements, trying his best to explain what was actually known about his theory of time travel. It was never stated that he had actually traveled in time, to both men's immense relief.

"Up to now, it's been a joke, for amusement only," Al said, leaning back in the chair. "Now, they take us seriously. Maybe even PBS will want you to do a special." It was a slow news day, he noted, watching the newscast. The Project's story only topped the half hour because there wasn't anything else of consequence going on in the world.

A story about the new Soyuz/US Deep Space Probe was next on the agenda. "Yeah, kid, things change. I remember when I went up to shake hands with them in Skylab. It was an Event, then. Now, it's just standard that we work with the Russians. Wonderful stuff. The world is changing, quieting down."

"I...missed...three years," Sam commented quietly.

"You didn't miss much - and if you forget remember that I have some catching up with you. I was so busy saving your tail that I didn't watch much news. We get to figure out this stuff together.

Smiling knowingly, Sam knew only part of Al's statement was true. They'd sit through news of the past three years and Al wouldn't complain a bit. His running commentary would be more amusing than the events themselves.

"I want your laptop." Sam smiled at the weird look Al was giving him. "My comput...you know." He wiggled the fingers of his right hand and did a fair imitation of typing. "I can do it...one-handed."

"I'll ask Matthews, Al said grudgingly. "I bet it'll take about one minute to convince him and he'll probably be downright delighted." His voice became a warning. "I'll do it only if you promise to take it easy. No all-night sessions - you have a schedule. No bull, Sam. I know you and I'm like the elephant - I don't forget. You get carried away and..."

"Nag." Sam crossed his right arm over his chest, eyes twinkling. "Nag, nag..."

"I'll get worse before I get better." He gave his friend a wry look, playfully punching him on the arm. "I knew once I got you talking, you'd be on my back."

The day had taken it's toll on Al's nerves and stamina. He leaned back into the comfortable chair, worlds away from the cares and pains of the last twenty-four hours. As he glanced over at Sam, he frowned. The younger man moved over on the bed and was patting the blankets next to him, his eyes a question.

Raising his eyebrows, Al looked at his friend suspiciously. "What are you implying, Dr. Beckett?"

"Not a thing," Sam replied, indignant that his gesture had been misinterpreted. "Better for your back."

Al knew Sam just wanted him close. It'd been a hard day for him, too. "All right, kid," he said, getting up from the chair. "You win - this round."

Al settled next to Sam on the bed, lying on top of the blanket. It was a close fit, and Sam maneuvered his right arm around Al's shoulders as the older man fell back on the pillows next to him. They'd look ridiculous to anyone glancing in the room - Al in his admiral's whites, Sam dressed in the blue pajamas that his friend had brought in for him.

"Shoes," Sam snapped, glancing meaningfully at Al's feet.

"Now, if I were in bed with a woman," Al said, kicking his highly polished shoes off and onto the floor. "She wouldn't be complaining about me marking up her bedspread."

"I do - tough." Sam felt his hand being gently pulled down and held tightly across Al's chest. He pulled his friend close, reveling in the feeling of having him near.

"Talk to me, Sam." Al glanced up at the other man's face. "You've had a hell of a ride today."

"Talking to Mom...helped. Tom...he'll cope." The pallor of Al's complexion and the stressed condition of his tense muscles hadn't been lost on Sam. "You...I'm worried about."

"Ha. I'm fine. Just another day among days, kiddo." Stifling a yawn, Al snuggled in close as he felt sleep dropping over him.

"Al?"

"Um?" Al blinked a couple of times, listening for Sam's voice, not wanting to move from his comfortable position.

"I love you. Thank you for bringing me home."

Al gripped the arm around his chest tightly. "I needed to hear that, kid. Thanks." Contented, feeling better than he had in weeks, Al drifted off.

Verbena walked in a few moments later and was greeted by the sight of the two primary assets of Project Quantum Leap fast asleep. Sam still had his arm encircled around his friend, snoring softly. Al was soundly out, his head pillowed on Sam's arm.

The mischievous side of her wanted to go running for a camera but she realized immediately that the repercussions of that kind of 'blackmail material' could seriously jeopardize her security clearance for the rest of her life.

She quietly dimmed the lights and shut the TV off, leaving the two men to sleep peacefully.

Chapter Seven

Much of the next few days was spent reviewing security and generally making sure the Project was the fortress Al thought it was. A veritable herd of reporters had assembled themselves outside the front gate and weren't budging. No amount of threats or persuasion could change their minds or diminish their determination to interview anyone, Beckett, Calavicci or a janitor. This was news.

Weitzman, safely in Washington, had few helpful suggestions except forced removal. Since the land outside the gate was not federal property, the media couldn't be arrested as trespassers. After slamming the phone down in the annoying man's ear, the next item on Al's agenda was a complaint from Tom Beckett that he couldn't leave the house. Carloads of reporters had shown up and his family were prisoners in their own home. Promising results, Al called the police in Elk Ridge and they, in turn, went out to the Beckett farm to implement seldom used crowd control.

When Verbena entered the office at ten a.m., she watched Al for a few moments before letting him know of her presence. He was not at his best, dressed in a rumpled jogging outfit, possibly an old one of Sam's, blue cigar smoke wreathing his head, snapping commands into the phone and hanging it up as if the receiver had bitten him.

"Snappy outfit," she commented, grinning.

Al glared at her with every ounce of candlepower he had in his annoyed eyes. "Go pound, Verbena."

"Is that any way to say good morning?" She went to the coffee machine and poured a cup, handing the hot, strong brew to the man behind the desk. "I thought I'd come down to Crisis Central and give you good news - and bad news."

Sipping at the strong black stuff, Al made a face. "This is awful, even for Navy coffee."

"Don't look at me - you brewed it!" She sat on the edge of the desk, avoiding the papers that covered most of the top. "Good news and bad, Al. You ready?"

"Shoot. Bad news first."

"Uh-uh. I'm the one that knows the tales and I'll tell you the way I think is best. First of all, Sam can go home in a week."

Al almost fell out of his chair, only succeeding in spilling a drop of coffee on his pants. "To Indiana? You mean that nozzle went over my head and..."

"Calm down. I meant Home - to that house you two shared before he Leaped. You know, the 'little house in the desert' that you probably haven't been inside of since God knows when."

Some of the stress of the morning slipped off Al's shoulders. "That is good news."

"Well, you have some things to do before he gets there. Greg Matthews wanted me to make a list, and I'll be more than happy to help you out with general clean-up, and so on. You need to call a reputable company that can set up the items on Greg's list - hand rails in the bath, maybe his room. A temporary ramp for his wheelchair..." She stopped at the dark expression on Al's face when she mentioned the chair. "Temporary, Al. The way Sam is going he'll be out of that chair in a week or less. It might not even be necessary."

"I'll make the calls." Al took a deep breath and drained the coffee cup. "And you said bad news."

"I did. For you. Greg wants you in his office at your earliest convenience for a check-up."

"No."

"Al! I know you and Dr Matthews don't get along all that well, and that Sam is your physician of record. You always insist that you aren't going in for a checkup until Dr. Beckett comes home. Well, buddy, he's back, and you're going to have the doctor look you over. Please." She reached across the desk and took his hand. "I saw you a few days ago, looking like you were in pain, leaning against the wall outside your office. Don't tell me nothing is wrong, because I won't believe you."

Shoulders slumping, Al turned his back to her, swiveling the chair to face the window.

"C'mon, Al. You've been so wound up in keeping Sam safe, and working on his recovery you forgot that you might get ill as well. It could be minor, just gas or something."

"It's no business but my own."

"And Dr. Matthews - don't shake your head!" She used the same tone as she would for a small child. "Just a quickie exam, Admiral. If you get really sick who'll take care of Sam? He'll be beside himself with worry and strain."

Alarmed, Al turned back to her. "You didn't tell him?"

"Of course not! It wasn't necessary. He's ready to take his first steps in a few days, so his mind is geared towards that right now."

"I'm not giving up easily, mind you." Al sighed, glancing at the pile of papers he was facing. They seemed to multiply on their own. The phone hadn't stopped ringing except for the last few minutes. Perhaps Haley had put a hold on calls.

"But you are giving in. Right?" Beeks asked hopefully.

Al shrugged. "What choice to I have? I could say no, and have you drag me in anyway."

"You know me so well." The psychiatrist smiled. "Once the ordeal is over, we'll get on the horn and make a few calls together. We'll get home ready for Sam's return."

"An ulcer," Al gritched, pulling himself together after Greg's thorough examination. He pocketed the prescribed medication, still hearing the doctor's words in his head. A recurrance of an old duodenal ulcer he'd had for years and just ignored when the dam thing flared up. Eleveated blood pressure, high cholesterol and possibly a bypass if he didn't change his diet. And he used to think Sam was a nagging doctor! Three bottles of pills and dire warnings from Matthews. Cut out the cigars, get rest, eat something besides sweet rolls and tuna fish sandwiches from the machine.

The admiral needed a release after the session and went to see his prime concern. Sam was seated on the edge of the mattress, looking smug and even triumphant.

"Looking good, kid." Chuckling at the smile on Sam's face, he went over and found himself being pulled close. His arms came up automatically, returning the embrace with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

"You're tired." The green eyes watched Al cautiously as he seated himself in the recliner.

"Another mess this morning. Up at the crack of dawn, shit, shower and shave. No time for niceties, Sam. Lots of reporters at the gate that we still have to deal with. Not you," he corrected gently. "Just us. You're safe in here."

Sam knew in his heart it wasn't all 'fine'. Something was strangely wrong with Al. He seemed more weary than he had before. Shaky, maybe just a touch unsteady. Sam also knew that his friend wsan't in the mood for a lot of questions right now. Maybe later. He pulled himself the rest of the way onto the bed, keeping his concerned gaze on Al.

The look wasn't lost on the older man. Damn Sam's hypersensitivity anyway. "They told me you get to go home in a week," Al said brightly. He was rewarded by a grin from the man on the bed. "You'll be walking, too. Going home, kiddo. We'll be bachelors in the old pad again, living it up. Christ, I'll have to get the pool filled, the pump costs a fortune but it doesn't matter. Pull out the lawn furniture so you can bake yourself. Sound good?"

"Ter...terrific!" Sam's face was glowing, full of life and happy. "I can't wait."

"Well, make a list of what you want at home and I'll get stuff. Groceries. I'll take a vacation or something, later, and we can have all the time together you want. Of course, you might be sick of the sight of me now."

"No. Don't go." Laying on his left side, Sam reached out to Al with his right hand.

Al stroked Sam's fingers, his face distant and thoughtful. "You really aren't tired of me are you?" One look at Sam's expression answered the question. It was set in loving lines, even a little scared. "I'll try not to leave you for a while, Sam. Not for a damn long while, if it means that much to you."

"Good." His expression was a little stern. "Quit smoking."

"I knew that would be one of the first things you'd jump my butt on. Get you talking and it's bitch, bitch, bitch, morning, noon, and night." His eyes softened. "I'll give it a try, Sam. I've been on the damn things since I was fourteen."

"I'll help you." A tease crept into the younger man's voice. "I can bake brownies."

"And burn the house down once you get distracted. You were never very good in the kitchen, Sam." Al leaned back in the chair, enjoying the pleasant company and peace that being in Sam's room gave him.

Sam watched his friend anxiously. He seemed so tired, and thin. Had he caused it? Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice that whispered that Al would be okay, once things settled down. Forcing his worry away, he tightly gripped Al's hand, smiling at the reflected warmth in the weary brown eyes.

"I'm at my wit's end."

"One more time," Al shook his head at Verbena's annoyance. "If he wants to race through the halls with that damn thing, then he can. I'm not stopping him. Damn it, we've been worried he'd never move around again. I'm pleased as hell and..."

The door to the office burst open and Sam followed, doing a perfect three point turn in his wheelchair and then out and down the hall.

"He's been in and out of Control three times today," Verbena said with a touch of amusement. It was kind of cute to see Dr. B. trying to pop 'wheelies' and charging through the Project like a demented Ironside. "Sam and Gooshie are inseparable, not to mention Ziggy. She's positively delighted to have her dad back."

"That computer is as nutty as he is," Al grinned, getting up from the desk. He was tempted to reach for the humidor, but Sam's continued presence, and worried looks every time he lit up, prevented him from taking another cigar. He was down to three a day, and positively not wanting to cut back more - at least, for now. Beckett had been mobile for the past three days and seemed to go faster, and have more fun with his new freedom, by the minute.

"Well, he's getting his this afternoon," Beeks said, interrupting Al's thoughts. "No more chair, Admiral, no need for ramps. I called the man you hired. He's ready to walk and damn well will, or..."

"If he's ready," Al said with confidence. "He'll walk."


	9. Chapter 9

PART NINE

Sam eyed the canes skeptically. Greg glanced at the Admiral for a moment, shrugging, and handed them to Al.

"I can do it," Sam said, sounding more confident than he felt. "I just don't know if I can do it now."

The canes were light, with cuffs at each end for his arms and hands to go through; modified crutches, Sam thought. "All right, Sam," Greg said. "You know how to handle these things." His gentle gaze was soft. "You can walk, Sam."

Cautiously, Sam took one with his right hand, and easily maneuvered it to a comfortable position. Al assisted him with the left, clamping the cuff gently around Sam's wrist. That side of his body was still partially incapacitated.

Helping Sam to his feet, Al had the strange feeling this was not unlike helping a child with it's first steps. Sam's body was pressed close to his for support until he adjusted to the canes. Biting his lip, Al pulled away when he felt the other man steady, keeping one hand carefully on Sam's shoulder.

Re-learning how to walk was as strange as Leaping. His entire body was one big tremble, and if it wasn't for Al just a breath away, he'd be afraid of crashing to the floor. It would hurt like hell, too. The right side of his body, Sam discovered, adjusted perfectly, but his left seemed to have a mind of it's own. The cane was the substitute for the uncooperative limb, placing it firmly out in front of him as Greg had demonstrated, before he put weight on his left leg. The foot was clumsy, fumbling at odd angles to the other.

"Good, Sam," Al commented proudly. He tried his best to ignore the left side of Sam's body that hung like dead weight. Would he ever be able to really gain that back? Maybe he should have a talk with Greg about it.

Sam forced out three more faltering steps before Greg came over and attempted to halt proceedings. "You've done enough for today - Hell, I think you over-exceeded expectations, Sam!"

"No! Sam stubbornly kept his grip on the canes and took another step. He slipped, just barely managing to catch himself long enough before Al wrestled him down to the floor. Shutting his eyes tightly, he shook his head slowly from side to side.

"You did great, Sam!" Al bent down over him, hands supported on his knees. "Fine for your first day."

"It won't work." Sam kept his eyes closed against the hopelessness that filled him. Damn his left side - he was angry, furious at his own body betraying him. He'd been so active before, hadn't he? The wheelchair was confining, as much a prisoner in that has he had been in the bed.

He felt Greg's hands on him, trying to ease him up. The sound of forcing himself to lever the canes under him.

"Sam...I don't think..." Al cautioned, worried and concerned. Startled, the Admiral glanced at Greg, who just raised his eyebrows. They watched in wonder as Sam, using sheer will and limited strength, forced himself to his feet and made two more faltering steps before stumbling onto the bed. With great care, he set the canes against the mattress. Tears were freely falling down his cheeks, his entire expression crumbling.

"Everyone out!" Al ordered softly, moving to Sam's side. the others instantly exited.

"What, kid?" Al sat on the edge of the mattress next to Sam, his hands folded between his knees.

"It isn't working."

"You did terrific. My God, a week ago you couldn't even use the chair and now going all over the place on those...a few days of that, and you'll be home free."

"I...don't think so." Sam rolled over onto his side, his back facing Al. "Nothing wants to work on my left side and..."

"It will in time, dammit. You've got your right side, and the left, well, kid, things happened in your head. Greg says your right brain is working with the left, compensating. It takes a while for that sort of thing to connect completely, y'know."

"I know that and it's frustrating." The pillow under Sam's head was crunched by his good hand squeezing it furiously.

"For you, yes, Mr. Overachiever. You had things come easy, everything. Your schooling, the Project. it came to you like it was nothing, really. This is a real fight, Sam. I'm right with you the whole time, okay? I'm ready to burst buttons just seeing you make it as far as you did today." The shirt on Sam's back was tacky, sticky with sweat from his exertions. "You could use a bath, kiddo. At least a wash-up. I'll call one of the nurses in, a pretty one, and..."

"Don't want any."

"F'Christ's sake, Sam. You're alive! Knock off the self-pity crap. I thank God every day you're here. Don't take that away from yourself. You were dead, once. In the Accelerator chamber."

Startled green eyes turned to realize the shattered expression on his friends face.

"After you leaped, kid. I lost a month's growth. No heartbeat, just this puddle of white on the floor, limp and dead. The crash cart, the Team... You idiot!" Al shook away the choking feeling that meant tears later. Not now. He had to make his point. "When we brought you back this time I thought you'd die. You didn't. Fighting every inch of the way. I pulled for you, Sam. You're alive, and home. Don't undo all the work you've done. So you've had a little setback, and your left side stinks. You can get pissed for a while, then stand up, and try again. Not now, though. Now, you're going to have a bath, and get royal treatment." Al was rewarded by a tiny grin spreading over his friends' face. "I'll get the stuff and be right back."

Knowing full well Verbena and the rest were watching from the window, he gave them a gesture to clear off. Sam needed private time with him, which they'd had very little of lately.

He returned to Sam and helped him with his shirt, pulling the cotton material over his head. Bringing the basin with warm water, he rinsed out the cloth and gently washed Sam's shoulders and chest, carefully drying him off as he finished.

It felt so good to allow Al to clean him up, the gentle motions as he scrubbed his back, almost massaging the stressed muscles. Drying him with the soft towel was such a tender gesture, like he was very small again.

"I'll wash your hair, too. It's getting grubby." Al checked the instructions on the shampoo he'd taken from the washroom. It was the kind that didn't need a rinse, one application and done. He helped his friend sit up and gently palmed a bit of shampoo into his thick, chestnut hair. Here he was, Admiral of the Navy, playing beautician to Dr. Sam Beckett. He had to grin at that, and what the powers that be would think of this particular form of therapy. His fingers played in the different layers of Sam's hair, massaging his scalp, careful to keep the shampoo out of his eyes. The kid had wonderful hair, and he hoped he wouldn't have it cut for a while. Sam looked great with the added length, the ends almost touching his shoulders.

Once he finished, he toweled of the hair an combed the tangles out, taking great care not to yank. "Gee, you look almost human again. Once we get you home you'll have the whole tub to play in, do your own hair. Think you can handle that?"

"Yes." Sam's gaze was distant. "What if I need help?"

"I'll be there. You can call for me and I'll come running. Not all the time," he added quickly. "You need to do stuff for yourself. I'm not going to be around all the time, what with work and that. You'll be busy yourself once Zig's online again. No more time-traveling, though."

"Uh-uh." Sam was fairly tamed of the idea of going into the Accelerator again. The thought of entering that room again made his gut cringe.

"Look at this." Al held up a clean t-shirt with M.I.T. emblazoned across the front. "Real clothes, not hospital stuff. Got it out of your office while I was packing things up. Some others, too. You gotta get used to being a real person again." He eased the t-shirt over Sam's head, pleased at the expression in the kid's eyes. "Couple more days, Sam. Just a few more details to clear up and you're home free." Al settled Sam back against the pillows, pulling the blankets up around his chin. "I know this isn't your usual nap time anymore, but it might do you good to sack out for a while. You've been overdoing it lately, Greg tells me. I want you to rest until dinner."

"Bossy!"

"Oh, first I'm a nag, and now bossy. Thanks, kid."

The bath had relaxed Sam, almost to the point of sleep. He felt clean and secure, thankful for Al's quiet presence.

Al rested a hand on Sam's hair for a moment. The strands felt warm and alive under his fingers. He loved this man beyond words, but couldn't ever say that out loud. It wasn't his way to say stuff like that, things that came so easily to Sam. He hoped with all of his heart that Sam knew that and understood.

Chapter Eight

"Don't laugh."

Al tried his best to stifle the giggle that threatened to erupt from his belly. The staff psychiatrist was dressed in what could remotely be called 'grubbies'. Even in her riding wear, Verbena was the picture of smooth and stylish. The brown bandanna tied around her black hair, the torn sweat pants, and a "Hang in There, Baby" sweatshirt completed the ensemble.

"You look a mess."

"You don't look much better, Admiral. Fuchsia?"

Al glanced down at his jogging outfit. "It's Sam's." He gestured at the front door of the house they were about to enter. "After you."

The house had been purchased, jointly, by Sam and Al three years before the Leap. For the most part, the two men hadn't spent much time there. It was their home base, a place to relax and forget the Project. That hadn't happened very often in those last years, and both had ended up spending more time at work and less time at home.

Verbena had been here once before; a Christmas party in 1993. The tree had been huge, in the living room between the piano and a small white chair that was still there. Presents galore, catered food, and Al making himself as scarce as possible. Sam had told people it wasn't his time of year, and gave no other explanation.

"We'll have to move Sam's computer," Al commented as they passed it. The desk blocked the hall enough to make it hard to get around. "They guys did a great job on the place, though. I didn't have to clean up a thing - did that themselves. They put rails up in the head, other places. Filled the pool, but we have to get the furniture out there to sit on. It's in the..."

"Slow down, Al." Verbena slumped on one of the stools in the kitchen. "It's the heat of the day, I think. We can clean this place up, maybe do some shopping and pull all that furniture out when it's cooler."

They spent the afternoon scrubbing the house down, clearing accumulated dust and dirt from four years of disuse. When they were finished they were proud of the job that had been done.

They sagged in the lounged chairs that Al had insisted be placed by the pool. It was killer hot, but the breeze seemed to cool the dry air.

"I had something to tell you that's best not said around Sam." Al was puffing on his now rare cigar, his eyes on the horizon, or maybe the pool. "It's important."

"I did what you told me. Everything." Al got up and stood by the pool. "Kept his desk the way it was when he left. Shoved those books back under his pillows like he left them, even stacked stuff under his end tables. Just like he..."

"Al, his mind is going through some heavy things. We haven't seen a sign yet of post-Leap depression, or even paranoia. I hope we don't but you never know. He's been down a little, but not what I expected. There's every chance he might exhibit some of those things once he returns home. It's very important that he sticks to his schedule of waking and resting."

"He knows he still has a way to go. You haven't told me anything I wasn't aware of."

"Al, Sam didn't have a stroke, not in the technical sense." She watched with concern the subtle change in the man's expression. "We thought so, for a long time. Up until this last week. a stroke is caused when a blood vessel ruptures in a part of the brain. We've analyzed his tests, just after retrieval. That didn't happen."

"So..." Al's eyes darkened. "He's faking it?"

"No, of course not! What did occur was an interruption of electrical impulses, as if a telephone line were cut. Those impulses controlled the left side of his body, possibly, and he hasn't been on the meds long enough for them to take effect."

"The medication will fix him up, then?"

"In a month or two he should be back to normal, if he wants to be."

"He wants, Bena." His gaze shifted back to the pool, watching the play of brilliant sunlight on the blue surface. "He tries so hard."

"His speech center was not affected by the interruption. We were right about that. When the situation backed him into a corner, he used his voice. He spoke. You have to admit his recovery, in that respect, was amazing. It was like a small part of himself finally came out from under the blanket. I think that this is just a theory, but I believe that Sam Beckett is afraid to face his real self."

"For the past three years that's all he's ever wanted to be," Al replied. "You didn't see the expression on his face when he went home to the farm. He was in heaven, happy as hell to be himself. This sounds to me like another one of those theories that doesn't wash, Dr. Beeks."

"Al, when it comes to Sam I've never been wrong, not yet." She met his angry and somewhat confused gaze. "He won't use a mirror. Sam shaves himself with an electric razor. I gave him a small hand mirror for bed use and he discarded it - shoved it in a drawer where he thought we wouldn't find it. I'm afraid he hasn't fully been aware of his 'real' self since he came home."

"Why is he afraid?"

"I would love to find that out, but unfortunately, that will probably flop into your hands some dark and stormy night here. Coming home will be the best thing in the world for him, but you have to be prepared to deal with the backwash of emotions he's been holding in. You'll have to give up nights out on the town, not like you haven't done that the past four years. No keeping late hours at the Project. He'll need you home in the evening, especially in the beginning. Sam can bathe, use the restroom, all the niceties. He'll need you to help him confront himself and deal with this for whatever reason he's been hiding from us.

Al took her words in, a little worried, more for Sam than anything. "How bad off is he?"

"He's fine, Al. When he explodes you can call me. I'll be over as soon as I possibly can. We'll fold the pieces together and make him a whole person again. Sam has to take the first step, or maybe you will make him. You'll know when this time comes. Could be tonight when you bring him home, or later this week. Or never. There's no way to predict in what way or when."


	10. Chapter 10

PART TEN

Without realizing it, Al kept his foot light on the gas, his eyes wide open and cautious.

"I'm not pregnant, Al," Sam grinned, every ounce of him glowing with joy. "Well, at least not now."

"What are you talking about?" the other man asked sharply, his eyes on the road.

"You're driving like my grandma used to. A regular hazard on the road." Sam lowered the window. He let the hot desert breeze hit him full in the face.

"Y'know, Sam, I have the air conditioning on for a reason." One look at his friends' expression cut Al short. The wind was whipping back the brown hair, green eyes crinkled shut.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?"

"You don't know how much. It's like . . . being released from prison." He glanced over at his companion. "Is this what it was like for you?"

"I guess, in your way, you became a prisoner." Al shrugged, his eyes full of dark compassion. "Just remember, Sam. You were always free up there the whole time, too."

Sam accepted his friend's words, a small shiver passing through him as he remembered Vietnam and the look on Al's face in the bar his last moments there. In the P.O.W. camp, Al had no control over his circumstances, and no one there, that he knew of, who cared. At least, Sam thought, in the prison he'd imposed courtesy of his Accelerator he'd had Al with him, and someone who knew him before he'd put himself into the cage of time.

Al kept one eye on the road and the other on his precious cargo. In the heat of the day, the interior of the car was like a furnace because of the open window, but Sam was shivering, his eyes riveted on the passing scenery. Al recognized the look almost immediately; the same expression when Sam Swiss-cheesed something on a Leap.

"You're remembering the house, kid. Hell, I had trouble even thinking about what it looked like for a while there. You okay?"

"Fine, Al. I ..." He pressed his right hand to his eyes, trying to clarify the image that was behind them. "We built it, didn't we? It's just off the base...God, Al! I was scared because I couldn't remember it, but now..."

"Oh, we didn't spend much time there, but it's home, kid. Nothing's changed, same old dump." He touched the control that opened the garage doors as they entered the driveway.

Al switched the engine off, smiling at the funny look Sam was giving him. "What?"

"Just that you opened the doors, and we're not parking in there."

"Uh, well, there's no room. Okay, that's it. We're home!"

He got out of the drivers side and assisted Sam with his canes as he made his way out of the car. So cautious, Al noted, each step a trial. Sam's eyes were taking in every bit of area; the tiny yard, the house that needed paint, but was still gracious-looking, and the open garage.

"What the hell..." Moving as quickly as the canes would allow him, Sam frowned, peering into the garage. "What...I don't remember..."

"Ah, well, the pool table. We'll discuss that later."

Hobbling over, Sam took a good look at the unfamiliar object. "When did you get it?"

"Take a look at your Jeep, here. Got all the plugs cleaned, oil changed, even..."

"You got it after I was Magic Walters..." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I guess that leap brought back memories." Al walked over to stand by Sam's side. "I thought, maybe, once you were home, I could teach you the finer points, for real. You had a pretty good eye, kid, once I pointed you in the right direction.

"One of the few things I did right." Sam's expression darkened, turning away from the table to go toward the door.

"Now what is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Al." Sam braced himself on the canes, adjusting his position. "Let's go inside. I'm tired."

God, Al thought, unlocking the door. If I had known the table would produce that kind of reaction I would have gotten rid of it long ago. "I bought a bunch of groceries," Al said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Stuff you asked for, and those things I know you wanted." He opened the door wide so Sam could enter easily. His face had lightened as he noticed the interior of the house. "Microwave popcorn, Diet Coke - no caffeine." Al kept up the steady patter as he entered the kitchen. "Frozen pizza, kiwi fruit, bananas..."

"Ugh." The sound of disgust was audible from Sam in the living room.

"Oh yeah, the chimp thing." Al walked to where Sam was. "Well I didn't get you any caterpillars...Von's doesn't stock 'em." Placing his arm across Sam's shoulder he met the other man's grave expression. "Welcome home!"

It even smelled the same, Sam thought. All those long nights, lying awake in someone else's body, thinking, sometimes remembering every nuance of what 'home' was, just to keep himself sane. A mixture of cigar smoke and Murphy's Oil Soap. He took in the sight of the living room. That ancient couch that was so out of place here, but comfortable after a long day at the Project. Spending the night on it, or until Al could make him go to bed. He'd have his headphones on, listening to CD's until he was deeply asleep and perfectly happy. Wrapped in Mom's afghan, still in place over the back of the couch.

Watching from the sidelines, Al enjoyed the sight of Sam touching the books on the shelves, his old records, and even the fireplace, greeting them like old friends.

"Is everything here?"

"No, I didn't trash your comic book collection. Sam?"

He ran across the room just in time to keep his friend from sliding to the floor. Grasping Sam's arm, he maneuvered the shaking man over to the small recliner and sat him down, watching the pale face. Eyes clenched tight, Sam was trembling again. "Talk to me, Sam. Are you okay?"

"Fine." The shakes were back, and the dizziness. "It's just so much. All here...and real."

"Is it just that? You're not in pain...?"

"I'm fine, really." Sam tried to laugh off the concern in his friends voice. "It's being home, and maybe getting out of the Waiting Room..."

Al caught a glimpse of pain that crossed Sam's face. "That's it, Sam. I'm calling Greg..."

Sam tried to get up from the chair and, with a sigh of disgust he fell back. Dizziness, double vision, headache, the works. Why now? "Al...?"

"Sorry, Sam. Doctor's orders. Greg said that if anything unusual happened I was to call him on the double." The phone was in the Admiral's hand and he was punching in the number. "I'm not taking any chances, so sit back and wait and see, okay?"

The doctor didn't seem alarmed and suggested that Al give Sam his prescribed meds and put the younger man to bed. He should settle in slowly, and take it easy the next day.

Sam realized it was great to be in his warm waterbed, with his television tuned to an old movie and the promised microwave popcorn. All he needed was Al's presence, but the man was keeping himself busy, rushing from bedroom to kitchen, kitchen to bath, and back again, his mouth going a mile a minute.

"Al!" Sam's shout brought the other man running, practically out of breath.

"God, Sam, what is it? Headache again? I'll get..."

"No. I want you. Here." Sam gestured at his side, the part of the bed that was empty. "Watch the movie with me? Citizen Kane. You told me it was one of your favorites. Isn't it?"

"Well, I'm more partial to The Third Man. This one's kind of weird, Sam."

"Orson Welles was a genius, too. He lost everything because of it."

"Now what's that supposed to mean?" Al flopped down on the bed next to Sam. "Are you going to start that old song again? You aren't losing everything, Sam. The Project is safe, and you'll be back on your feet before you know it!"

Sam fingered the sweatshirt Al wore with affection. "I remember this, too. You used to call this your slob clothes."

"Well you know I'm the snappiest dresser west of St. Louis and any other place I could mention. The ladies love me; gotta keep up appearances."

"I think I like you better dressed like this. It's real. You have to stop worrying about me, and running around like a nut. Everything is fine. If I need something I can get it, or ask for help. I'm not turning you away, Al. All I want from you, well, mostly, is just to be close. I want you near me, relaxed and enjoying home as much as I am. Can you do that?"

"I can try, Sam," Al said, sighing. "God, I worry about you. I've spent weeks just scared to death something might happen. You'd relapse, or, well, any number of things."

Sam laid his head on his friend's shoulder, not being able to pull him close with his left arm. He was rewarded by Al's arm around his waist, just a gentle tug, then release.

"You're pretty skinny, Sam. I'll have to take care of that, among other things. Maybe some Chinese food you like, or Italian. Put some meat on your bones."

"Are you okay, Al?" The big question he'd wanted to ask for days. Something Verbena had said prompted it, something about Al's condition.

"I'll live forever, kid. Don't worry. Got a little stomach trouble, nothing serious. I'm taking that junk that coats your stomach - how can a little pill do that? Feels better, though."

"When I'm back on my feet, I'll give you a check-up." It was a promise, Sam thought. I'm Al's doctor and he needs me.

A wide yawn was his answer. "You guys are all the same. Swann on one side, you the other. What a pain." God, he was tired. If he closed his eyes for a moment, he'd be out, on Sam's waterbed. Well, at least his back wouldn't feel like it had that night he'd crashed with him in the Waiting Room.

Sam used the remote and lowered the volume of the TV. Somehow it was more entertaining to watch his friend's face as he slept. There had been a lot going on, mostly concerning his return. Al had been the focal point everyone had centered on, the man who held the Project and its people together while he'd been in Time. Since his return it hadn't escaped his notice that Al was being hit by the press on one side, and the powers-that-be on the other. Not once in the last month had Al asked him to make a press statement, as much as the "Nozzles" had tried to con him into it. He'd guessed at a lot of the things Al had done to make his life private and easy right now, and heard some when he could manage to wedge information from Verbena.

He wanted so much to trace the worn lines on Al's face and take away the pain he saw there. More and more, his mind drifted to more than just friendship love between them. In a way, it frightened him, knowing Al would never go for it. His friend was not a prude, far from it, but he and Al... Sam swallowed hard. He remembered when he was Samantha, and what Al had been scared of then - loving him past the point of friendship. Even as a woman, the aversion had been there.

Another point; when he'd been in the military academy. Tommy. Al's words, his anger at what he considered deviant behavior. His ignorant remarks had faded at the end of that Leap. You were right, Sam, and I... I was wrong. Something had changed him. I changed him, my being Tommy without caring made him realize it might be okay.

Still, he wondered what kissing him would be like. Touching his mouth with his, being that close. Was it the touch he longed for or just being that close to Al?

I love Al. I want him in a way I can probably never have. Nell, in my current physical state... He lay back against the pillows, his right arm crossed over his face. I've changed so much. More than anyone really knows. Even Al. Before I leaped, I was so sure of who I was, what I wanted out of life. Now, I realize sometimes I was cold, concentrating on the Project and sometimes not really paying attention to what was going around me. God, I really missed the things I ignored. That night Al tried to make me go home and he was like a dim echo behind me, my mind so into what I was doing with Ziggy. After a while he realized I was blocking him out and he went away. When I think about that now, I know I hurt him badly. Did he know, did E know, I wasn't going to be here long?

Al knew. He practically did everything but beg for me to spend time with him. I took him for granted, thinking he'd always be there, and then, I did it. I Leaped.

Al moved in his sleep, shifting, a small frown appearing between his eyes. Is he dreaming? Does he worry in his dreams? Am I worth it? He seems to think so.

The medication he'd taken earlier was achieving the desired effect. Maybe he could talk to Al about how he was feeling, later, when he was feeling better and not so dependent on his friend's presence. Maybe his longing for a closer relationship would change when his condition improved and he could think more clearly.


	11. Chapter 11

PART ELEVEN

Al awoke, at first thinking he was still in the Waiting Room with Sam, and noticing, with relief, that the object of his concern was asleep and very much at home.

You couldn't just get up off of this bed. It sloshed and swayed as Al eased his way off the mattress. Sam slept through it all, only snuggling in tighter into a ball, pulling the blanket up over his chin.

Rearranging the bedclothes so Sam was more securely covered, he smiled at the peaceful look on the kid's face. The temperature of the bed seemed fine, but he checked the thermostat regardless. A little warmer wouldn't hurt, and Sam could probably use the heat on his therapy-sore muscles. With a pat, he said, "Good night, Sam," and left the room, shutting off the TV and lowering the lights.

He hesitated before locking the doors. Some niggling thing in his mind was telling him that he and Sam were not alone. Heart beating wildly, he went to the seldom-used front door and switched on the lights, taking one good peek out the window.

Damn. Just as he had feared, two of the more obnoxious and persistent reporters were lurking outside. One had a video camera and the other was the one Weitzman had said couldn't ask enough probing questions. Ferret face; sharp, bright eyes. The intruders seemed to be discussing a plan of action, and Al was fully prepared to take them on to protect Sam from a media onslaught.

Wearily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he phoned the Project and ordered security backup. Sam was not about to be made a prisoner in his own home, and the press wasn't going to be within miles of the place if he had anything to say about it.

Informed that his requested guards would be there in five minutes, Al went back to the window to keep an eye on the reporter and his cameraman. They were standing directly in front of the door, ready to ring the bell. Before they could, Al opened the door a crack, firmly barring their entrance.

"Admiral Calavicci!" Ferret Face grinned widely, putting out a hand. "My name is Robert Weeks, CNN. We've been trying for days to..."

"This is private property." The Admiral had his fright mask on; the expression of stone that had frightened many a man. "If your buddy there turns on that camera I'll break his arm. An escort will be arriving to take you back to your hotel - or wherever. I want you and any other members of the press corps to keep your butts off this place. You got that straight or do I have to make it clearer for you?"

The grin faded on Weeks' face. His voice turned more persuasive, almost threatening. "Listen, Admiral, this is big news. I just have one question, just one, and I'll leave you alone."

"Fat chance." Al shook his head. "I answer your one..." Despite his threat, the camera was taping their conversation, audio and video. It was an indiscernible sound, but one that the Admiral's well-trained ears picked up immediately. "I said shut that off, or I'll shove the damn thing up your ass."

With a sheepish look, the cameraman lowered it as if it were a weapon.

With relief, Al noted Project security was roaring up the driveway. Weeks looked back anxiously as the men poured out of the vehicles. He turned back to Al quickly, desperate to achieve his quest. "Please, Admiral. Did Dr. Beckett travel in time?"

"What's goin' on, Al?"

Sam's sleepy voice behind him made Al turn, pushing the door shut to block out the other man's sight of reporters and Security. "House pests - " he hissed. "Get back in your room. I'll be there in a minute."

Damn it, they'd unsettled the kid and it would be hell getting him back to sleep. He waited until Sam was safely back in his room before opening the door. The sight did his heart good. Weeks was being escorted into one of the military vehicles, looking thoroughly disgruntled and angry.

"Any further orders, Admiral?"

"Keep those bastards away from here. I don't want one of them within five miles of this house - make it ten. Dr. Beckett must have privacy. He's been through an ordeal and a half. Understood?"

"Perfectly, Sir." The lieutenant waved the other guards over and they moved out. Al shut the door and made sure the dead-bolt was in place before he went back to check on Sam.

He was huddled into a lump on the bed, his body curled around one of the larger pillows, face buried in the folds of the blankets.

"They're gone, Sam." Al slumped on the edge of the bed, his hand steadying the other man's shaking shoulder. "I made sure they'll never bother us again. At least at home." He squeezed gently, making Sam relax a bit. "You going to be all right?"

"They'll return, maybe even worse than ever," Sam said, rolling onto his back, his face taking on the lost look Al feared. "You know that. We have to do something. Maybe answer questions."

"Can't do that, kid." Al brushed back some of the hair that had fallen over Sam's forehead. "Not until you're debriefed. D.C. says we're still classified as TOP SECRET. That means the public doesn't have a right to know, yet."

"How are we going to keep them away, Al?"

The hazel eyes were round, unhappy. "We could station guys on the roof, machine gun turrets, y'know. You could do targeting from here in the house. I'll call Rent-A-Tank and mow them down while they run screaming down the driveway. Whaddya think?"

A snort of laughter escaped, easing the tension.

"Seriously," Al continued. "They won't get near the house now. I made sure security was particularly clear on that point. We got the best men, Sam. Good guys that care about your welfare. Just hope some bozo doesn't try to get in the Project. That'll make a great lead-in on the CBS News. That's one of the reasons we have to keep the place on the secret file. The moment you announce you can travel in time someone who isn't quite as Boy Scout-ish as you might try to get into the Project and do some serious damage."

"We'll have to dismantle Ziggy," Sam said, fear making his blood run cold. "Maybe we can just delete his programming. I think..." He looked uncertain and afraid. "Is it all still in my head? I don't know anymore."

"It's all in Ziggy and she's fine, Sam. The Accelerator is in pieces right now, bits and parts."

"You mean bytes and..."

"Very funny, smart ass."

"Are you going there tomorrow?"

The lost sound in Sam's voice punched Al in the heart. "I was, but..." His lips pinched together tightly. "Not with those Nozzles running around. I trust security, but I won't be satisfied until I see how it goes. We'll sleep in, maybe get some work done here by phone. Most of my stuff is in the files and I can fax Hayley what she needs it push comes to shove."

The plan had been for Sam to spend some time alone the next day, but that sounded like a bad idea right now. "Greg said he'd be over in the morning for your session, and after that you got the day to do what you want. Hell, we didn't put that pool in for nothing, or the Jacuzzi. It hasn't been getting much use since Tina left."

"Where is she?" Sam had almost forgotten about Al's girlfriend. She hadn't been mentioned since his return home - maybe longer than that.

"Uh, she got sick of the crap, I guess." Al pulled a cigar out of his pocket and played with it. "She said I was too busy to maintain a relationship. Went to her mother's, for good, and more power to her."

"You have to stop worrying about me, Al." He reached out and grasped Al's elbow. "I'm sorry about Tina. You need to talk about what's eating you, your aches and pains. I'm not the only one around here who needs to talk, you know."

"You got your own secrets you're not telling me." Al sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Something inside, Sam. You'll tell me when you're good and ready, I know." He turned and rested one hand against Sam's startled face. "I'll see you in the morning, kid." Al's voice had turned wistful, quiet and sad. "You're safe with me."

As Al left his room he wanted to call him back. Yet, that little voice that he often heard was telling him it still wasn't time.

He rolled over onto his side and gripped the extra pillow tight in his arms. For a fleeting moment he wished it was Al, and the sensation startled him with it's intensity. Would he object, he wondered again, or be disgusted if he knew the thoughts that drifted through his mind? What would it be like to give him every bit of love and possession that Al deserved?

All those years I Leaped, and all I ever wanted was Al's touch. If I could have him just one minute and hug him close when something went right, or cry on him when it all went terribly wrong...

The noises that assailed Sam's waking ears were unfamiliar. The sheets felt different, smelled of fabric softener... In a moment he realized he was home, not in the Waiting Room. It was a little later than he was used to waking, and in a flood of memory, he remembered what had caused him to sleep longer. The reporters, disturbing the house and the privacy that he and Al were trying to maintain.

A fluffy velour robe was lying across the end of the bed and he pulled it on; a little difficulty with his left side, but he managed. The canes were set within arm's reach and he eased himself out of the bed carefully, curious to see what was causing the swearing from the general direction of the kitchen.

Al was trying to cook, which immediately brought a smile to Sam's face. There was a skillet on the stove, butter melting in a browning puddle, and his friend was slumped over the butcher block, blearily staring at a cup of either coffee or melted tar.

"Do you think it might come alive?"

Jumping out of his house slippers, Al glared at his friend. "You're good," he managed, trying to still the violent beating of his heart. "How'd you manage getting all that way without me hearing you?"

"Practice." A grin slid across his face. "Revenge for all the times you snuck up on me."

"I never..." He shrugged at the wry look Sam was giving him. "Well, maybe a few times I had Gooshie center me a little close, but just to keep you on your toes."

"Your butter is burning."

In one startled movement, Al turned and pulled the pan from the heat, swearing furiously as he scorched his hand. He stuck the reddened digit in his mouth, keeping up a steady line of expletives as he did so.

"Let me see that." Sam gently pulled the hand from Al's mouth and checked over the superficial injury. "It's not too bad. Maybe some baking soda, or just cold water." His face was grave as Al yanked his paw from Sam's examination. Gravely, the younger man said, "I'd stay off it for a while."

Running water from the faucet over the burn, Al grimaced. "You haven't lost your bedside manner. It still stinks."

"I never said I was a good doctor. I know the basics, though. Maybe," he added as an afterthought, "I'll go into surgery, get a degree in that, and Law."

"Christ, kid, you've got enough degrees, okay?" He was grumbling in a good-natured way, enjoying having Sam here to argue with for a change. He'd spent enough mornings pretending the kid was here to yell at, especially after a particularly nasty Leap. That mess with Seymour - he'd freaked out Tina, yelling at himself that day. Sam wasn't the only one who spoke to imaginary friends during those times.

"So school is out, eh?" Sam leaned on the counter, watching as Al pulled breakfast from the refrigerator and attempted to start from scratch. His voice became teasing, suggestive. "Maybe I can teach you a few things?"

Startled, Al almost dropped the dozen eggs he had in his hands. "Uh, Sam... " he began.

"I can cook this stuff, and maybe you'll learn a thing or two." He staggered over and took the eggs from Al's numb hands, setting them on the counter. "Could you get me a bowl? I'll make omelets, and maybe some veggies; onions, peppers." His eyes crinkled as he grinned at Al. "If you'll help me I think we'll have edible food in just a few minutes."

As he held the vegetables so Sam could chop them he wondered at the look that had passed over the kid's face a moment ago. It was almost seductive, more than friendliness. Not unpleasant, and Sam seemed content now, actually doing something that was normal and everyday.

It was intriguing to note that Sam unconsciously braced himself on his left side, using the cane to compensate for what wouldn't or couldn't work.

With great concentration, Sam avoided chopping Al's fingers and kept his own emotions in check. The gentle tease had just come out and he could tell that his friend was startled by it. Not displeased, by any means. There was a new feeling between them, almost like electricity, but it seemed to be waiting... for what, he didn't quite know.

"Mushrooms?" he questioned.

Al shook his head abruptly, trying hard to follow the line of thought behind the question. "Excuse me?"

"Where is your mind at, Al? I wondered if we had mushrooms for this work of art?" He wondered for a moment at Al's dazed expression. No answer forthcoming, he continued. "Well, if we don't, that's fine. You cut the onion, though. I can't wipe my eyes when they run." Sam turned abruptly, going over to the stove and reheating the pan, adding more margarine and hoping Al hadn't noticed the catch in his voice.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" He kept his eyes on the melting gold in the pan.

"We don't have mushrooms. Marshmallows, yes. And Jujubes. No fungi."

"We have candy?" Sam turned from the stove, his eyes dancing with light. "Where?"

"Now, Sam..."

He turned on Al, grinning tightly. "Where, Al? Where's the candy?"

"Not for breakfast:"

"I can have whatever I want, when I want. You're not a dietitian." His eyes lit on the cupboard Al had just come from and he hurried over pulling the door open. Boxes and bags of junk food practically fell out.

Al shook his head, his expression indulgent and affectionate. If Greg should show up and see his patient diving into a bag of Gummi Bears he might have other thoughts.

"Doritos, Al! There's Doritos in here!" He gave the older man a scathing look. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sighing, Al turned and gently shut the cupboard. "You can eat that shit to your heart's content once you've had a balanced breakfast."

Face falling, Sam allowed himself to turn away from the Paradise he'd beheld. Most of the time, on Leaps, be couldn't indulge the two things that meant a lot to him - going home, of course, and junk food. Before he'd taken the step and traveled here, there, and everywhere, he'd constantly avoided the fatty stuff, and sugar because it was such a trial to keep his shape up. Now that he was home, and horribly underweight, he could eat and drink pretty much anything he wanted, within reason, anyway. Doritos hadn't been around until the mid-seventies and he'd had fewer leaps after '75, so the flavored chips were high on his list of had-to-haves.

"Don't leak a word of what's in that cupboard to Greg. Speaking of which, he'll be here soon." He gestured at the ingredients in front of him on the counter. "You started this mess, so finish it. I cut up your onion. Did a little extra, just because you like 'em. You'll never catch a woman with bad breath."

As he whisked the eggs into the bowl, followed by the veggies, and poured the entire thing into the skillet, he thought about what Al had said. A girl. His automatic response was "I don't want any," but he kept his mouth shut tight. He had not succeeded in bringing Donna back, despite what he'd tried in 1972. Had he really wanted her that badly, or was it longing for a more innocent time and not the person he'd shared 'then' with?

He stirred the eggs idly. He'd never been that sexually active; could count, with the exception of his time with Donna, only a few rare times he'd had sex. Mostly on Leaps; Nicole, and what he'd had with Maggie, if you could call a blow job a real encounter. It had been unbelievable though, worth the moments they spent together because be had been attracted to her. It had been a release for him, then.

"You've got a silly grin wiped across your mug, Sam." Al was leaning on the counter, his eyes twinkling with glee. "Thinking hard?"

Sam had to stifle the snort of laughter that threatened to explode from within and take the kitchen out with both of them. "Just, I guess, glad to be home and cooking for you."

From the look in Sam's eyes, that hot, passionate, and very distracted brightness, there was more on Sam's mind than preparing a meal. It was apparent, by his words and the embarrassed blush that was creeping up his cheeks, that he'd rather not talk about his real thoughts. "Well, kid, I'm pretty glad about it myself. It's nice to not have to worry about taking that long elevator ride every morning down to the I.C. Five miles, down, Sam. No fun."

"Couldn't be helped." He lifted his head, a frown crossing his face as he tried to remember. "The radium ring had to be shielded somehow. Maybe on the next run I can find some kind of solution to the problem."

"Not to mention the environmental factor." Al cupped his head in his hands, his eyes on Sam. "That stuff is nasty to living things, isn't it?"

"It would be, but with the way it's..." He tilted his head to one side, staring into space. "Can't hurt a thing, especially the people in there. Al, I'm remembering!" A broad smile lit up his face. "All of it, how I built the I.C. - I was worried about a leak, and how that would affect you from day-to-day exposure. When I figured that into the equation we made up the shielding and all the precautions..."

"Great, Sam. Well, if you can figure out some way to shorten that damn elevator ride I'll be entirely in your debt. I'm gettin' old, too over-the-hill to do that every day. Not that I'm likely to do it again, however," he added, with a meaningful look in his friend's direction.

"You know, Al, I think I'm through with time traveling. There's so much more I can do. I've got plans for other things. Once we've wrapped up the Project, I want to do something about that idea we had. The ozone layer, the artificial atmosphere idea we were fooling around with. I've been watching the news reports about the greenhouse effect, and how bad the weather's been of late."

"Scares the hell out of me."

Sam turned the heat off under the pan and turned to face Al, a new enthusiasm touching his words. "We can create that, Al. There's not a lot of time, but we can do it! A couple of years; maybe even get the government to let us use the Project site for it. When I get back to Ziggy I can..."

"Slow down, Sam," Al chuckled. He was pleased as punch to see Sam back to his old self, excited, creative, his mind and mouth going a mile a minute. "I'll talk to the big boys about it, later, when we've wrapped up QL. We need to tie that off nice and neat before getting into something as ambitious as this."

"In a year then," Sam said reluctantly. It would take at least that long before he could finish the Project to his satisfaction, and the Government's.

"You need time off, Sam, and don't forget that. You still have to go to Indiana and spend time with Mom. And Kate - God, I almost forgot."

Sam closed his eyes, thinking over his mother's condition. It hurt to think he hadn't been there to prevent that. Had his extended absence put a strain on her, too?

"She wants you to call her. She's in Hawaii, of course, and maybe you can do that today. God, she's on your side, Sam. Read Tom the riot act over the phone, or so she told me. I think you really convinced her that you were from the future when you went home that time. She's not saying that, but she's making definite inroads in that direction."

"Good." He glanced at the phone and felt that creeping fear attack him. "Why don't we set the table and..."

"Well, it's pretty early, but we could call her now. What do you think?"

Sam went white, and leaned against the counter for support.

In a second, Al was at his elbow, concerned and upset. "Sam..."

He waved him off, grinning. "I'm just hungry, I guess. Let's eat, okay?" The hazel eyes were guarded, trying to shade the emotion in them that Al could read so well. He knew Al was anxious and wanting to ask questions. Giving him as encouraging a grin as he could muster, he straightened. "Maybe Greg would like to go for a swim. I know I do."

Al dished out the plates and set the meal, with Sam's help. It didn't pass his notice that the kid had lost that sparkle. It wasn't Katie. The damn phone . He sighed, taking his place at the table.

"Al?" Sam's anxious gaze touched his friend from across the table. "You were right last night. I do have things bothering me that I haven't told you." His words were soft, almost as if he were learning to speak again. "When I'm ready, you'll be the first to know."

"I hope it's soon, kid." Al picked up his fork, grinning to lighten the mood. "Let's dig into this stuff and see if it's edible."

After Greg arrived, Al stayed indoors working on some catch-up work that Hayley faxed him from the Project, and made a few phone calls. He was glad that Sam was outside and he could have a few minutes to speak in private to Verbena about Sam's problem. She seemed concerned, but said that it was one of many stumbling blocks he'd encounter on the road to recovery and that eventually it would iron out.

She suggested Al assist him in calling Katie, as much as that's what they'd had to do when they'd called his mother. Verbena was also spending the day at home, cleaning and reminding her animals that she was their owner. Al thanked her graciously for her advice, and 'Bena reminded him that she was always available. Still, Al felt unsettled when he hung up the phone.

His gaze drifted out the window to Sam and Greg. Both men seemed engrossed in a conversation, Sam floating in the pool, apparently without effort, just looking a bit tired. His right hand was gripping the edge, but he looked wet and happy. Greg was crouched near him, his blond hair shining in the sun.

The sight made Al uncomfortable. Jealousy? He almost wanted to laugh at the thought, except it was true. It was fine for the kid to have other friends, damn it, and he should be glad that he was able to communicate with people and show off that natural charisma. It was just Greg looked like he was enjoying himself far too much and... Al shook the feeling off. Christ, it made it sound like he and Sam were, well, lovers or something.

And yet, he thought, walking over to get a better look. Sam looked damned good. The sun was brushing his shoulders with a bit of pink, but he was already glowing with a tan, after only a couple of hours of exposure. His handsome, open face was split with a grin, probably laughing at something Greg had said. Maybe just enjoying the sun and outdoors like he used to.

Sam had never used the pool much, and he was a sight when he did. Tina had practically fallen out of the lounge the first time she'd seen him in that skimpy bikini thing. He'd swim from one end of the pool to the other, skimming across the water effortlessly - hours, it seemed, on end. Unfailingly polite, he served the impressed woman a drink and dripped into the house, undaunted, completely unaware of the stir he'd caused. It had been great for Al - Tina had been especially wanton that time. He'd wondered if she'd made love that afternoon to him - or Sam, the man she'd fantasized about.

Al shook his head, trying his best to return to the work that was being neglected. Anyway, remembering Tina made him want something he couldn't have for now. Sam was his priority, and everything else came second.


	12. Chapter 12

PART TWELVE

Sam got out of the pool, his long body beaded with water, the bright sunlight reflecting off the moisture that clung to his skin. He smiled at his therapist, as he maneuvered over to the nearest chaise lounge and fell on it. The hot sun on his skin felt better than any heating pad.

"You did damn good, Sam. I'm proud of you." Greg sat on the end of the chair, returning the grin enthusiastically. "Two laps, and I only asked for one. You have a lot of strength, but you must make the left side work for you. More concentration. What's up? You seem distracted."

Sam tossed the towel he was using to dry his hair onto the turf and frowned. "It's just being home. Nothing but."

"Heard you two had a couple of nosy guys butting around here last night."

"Al took care of it."

"He takes care of pretty much everything, when it comes to you. You're lucky to have someone like that." His face was wistful. "I did, once. Made me feel safe, and loved. Like Al and you, in a way."

"Who? Your father, a friend?"

"A friend." Greg handed Sam the bottle of sunscreen Al had shoved in his hand on the way out. "You'd better put it on or you'll be a French fry."

"Al says that. Did this friend - " Sam hesitated, worried that he was prying into something that was none of his business.

"It's okay, Sam. We don't have secrets. He was shot to death in L.A. years ago. I'm older than I look," he grinned. Despite the joviality in his voice, his water-blue eyes were clouded with grief. "Went to the store to get light bulbs and got killed by a robber. Senseless, very sad. We'd been living together about three years, practically a marriage by then."

"You're gay?" Sam asked the question softly, not amazed or surprised in the least, but curious.

"Yup. But very celibate. Come by it naturally. It's taking a while, and Verbena helps. I'm just getting over the worst of it now, and working with you seems very good therapy. You're like him, in a way. Very compassionate, devoted to your work and friends. A good person. Driven, like he was, all the time, but not forsaking the people around you to accomplish goals. Mark was a paraplegic - I normally never date patients, but he was pretty insistent. Fell like a ton of bricks."

"I want to ask a personal... well," Sam grinned nervously, scratching his-head. "If he was disabled..."

"Oh we had a normal sex life, if that's what you mean. This is really great, Sam."

"Great?" The hazel eyes went round with amazement.

"Well, I was wondering how to bring this up to you." Greg clasped his hands together in front of him. "You've never asked if you'd be normal in that way, and I felt kind of stuck as to how to say you would. You're fine and when the time comes, you'll be able to perform. There's no paralysis, except your left side."

Sam hadn't realized what a relief that was. "Thanks," he said briefly. "I heard what you did while I was gone. You took good care of me and everyone else."

"Some of those women..." Greg shook his head, laughing. "Especially the one - Samantha - wanted me like crazy. You'll see the tapes later, and lose it, like I did." He got up from the chair. "I really have to be hitting the road. Some friends and I are going to EI Paso for the weekend and the Admiral was gracious enough to give me a break. Insisted. Keep up the laps, and we'll be back on track early Monday morning."

"Greg?" Sam reached up and enfolded the man in a bear hug. "I'm sorry about your friend."

As he pulled away, Greg smiled softly. "Thanks for letting me bend your ear about him. Makes Mark come alive sometimes. You take care, Sam."

After applying a generous coating of sunscreen, Sam closed his eyes and proceeded to bake himself into happy oblivion. Greg's words had soothed him more than he'd realized at first. Mostly what he'd said about his friend, and the fact that he was gay and not in the least bit messed up because of it.

What if something should happen to Al? He was mortal, after all, no matter how much he tried to disprove that theory. Would he make it through the ordeal, make it through life without him? The terrible thought made him feel hollow inside. Losing Al would be like losing a limb, a part of himself. With a pang, he realized how much he depended on his friend's presence, and knew, in time, that would fade back down to normal.

Could he live if Al died? Like Greg, taking years of therapy until he just managed to live without him? Even worse, if he died not knowing how he truly felt?

"You can probably use this."

Sam's eyes snapped open in alarm, only calming with the realization that Al was standing before him holding a tall glass filled with some tannish fluid and tinkling ice cubes.

"It's iced tea. And a sandwich." He set the plate and drink on the small table by the chaise. "Hope you don't mind turkey and good stuff, like sprouts and that. Horse food, but Swann says you need greens."

Grateful, Sam took the glass and drank thirstily. It tasted fresh and absolutely wonderful.

"Take it easy; there's more where that came from." Al set the pitcher on the table and Sam poured himself another glassful. "You're getting kinda red, kid. Maybe you should come in for a while."

"I'm under the umbrella and it feels so good, Al!" He stretched luxuriously, munching on his sandwich and feeling better than he had in what seemed years. "You should stop working and come out and enjoy this."

"I suppose I could." Al slumped on the chair next to Sam, feeling out of place in his running suit. "The State Department gave the media a firm negative on another news conference, for now. That jerk from CNN started a real mess - played what he had of the tape on the air and accused us of keeping you as a prisoner. Your brother made it perfectly clear, and thank God for this, that you were fine and accessible, at least to your family. For once, he came through." He shook his dark head, falling against the back of the chair. "I had a shitty morning, but it's calmed down now. You looked like you were having fun with Greg."

"The usual," Sam said quickly, around his sandwich. "I did two laps."

"Saw that. Good job, Sam." He closed his eyes. The sound of the pool water moving in the soft breeze was calming. "Do you think you'll be up to public speaking in a few months?"

"You're kidding."

"Nope. M.I.T., Harvard, all the biggies. You'll make a mint on this, not that you're poor. They've made offers, and I shelved them, for now."

"I had a lot of practice, I guess." Sam sighed, setting the plate aside. "When I was the rainmaker..."

"You did more than your share, that time, kid. Maybe a little much. I wanted to strangle you."

"I made a lot of mistakes, but you always seemed to straighten things out for me."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Sam. Plenty of times I wasn't there in time and you managed just fine, thank you."

"That sandwich was great, but I know something that would go with it perfectly." Sam's eyes lit up, remembering what he'd sighted that morning in his investigation of the refrigerator. He grabbed his canes and hobbled into the house, returning quickly and sinking into his lounge, fairly drooling in anticipation.

"Yup," Al murmured, oblivious to Sam even leaving. "You'll do great. Before you Leaped you were a mess in front of people, like in Sweden that time. Stuttering, stammering... A 'thank you' sufficed -the old shy farm-boy routine. You can go through all those offers later when..." He cracked one eye open, realizing Sam wasn't paying the least bit of attention.

With great gusto, Sam dug into the pint of peach ice cream and popped the first spoonful in his mouth. He caught Al's curious gaze on him and grinned, sticky white stuff dripping onto his chest and chin as he shakily maneuvered the spoon up to his mouth. "Want some?" he asked, keeping his eyes carefully neutral.

"Uh, no, thanks." Al raised his eyebrows, enjoying the show, but trying to keep his amusement from Sam.

A particularly large spoonful of ice cream plopped down Sam's chest and dripped down over his furry stomach. With a pang of disgust, the younger man realized he was fast becoming a mess, but he could always shower or bathe later. How could he stop now? The cold, sweet, stuff was terrific, and the glimpse he got of Al's eyes on him made him tremble inside.

As discreetly as possible, Al watched his friend become progressively more and more disgusting. He was trying so hard. His left hand, holding the carton on his thighs, was shaking, scattering drops of melting ice cream over his chin, legs and wrists. Al felt his gut clench for a moment. The sight of the cool stuff melting on Sam's sun-heated skin was downright sexy - each spoonful slipped into his mouth a show for his audience's benefit.

Finally, Sam set the nearly empty container aside. Thank God he'd remembered the napkins. He reached out for the stack, but the moment his fingers touched them they fell to the ground. Al swept out of his chair and retrieved them smoothly.

Fumbling and grabbing, Sam attempted to snatch the napkins out of Al's hands as the older man tried to wipe his face. With his right hand, he quickly snagged the other man's wrist, holding him tightly. Their eyes met; Al's dark and frowning, Sam's determined. Without thinking over the gesture a moment, Sam pulled his friend to him and touched his mouth to his, releasing him almost immediately.

The look that quickly crossed Al's face was suddenly, carefully, neutral. Without comment, he moved back to his chair, giving no hint of his reaction to Sam's sudden gesture.

Sam pushed himself up from the chaise, grabbed his canes, and hurried into the house. He wanted to be inside, shut a door behind himself, and try to work out the feelings that were swarming inside of him. A blush touched his face, anger and embarrassment wrestling with each other as to what he felt the most. Thank God, he thought, that Al had the good grace not to comment, or slug him. Maybe, just maybe, he'd put the whole thing off to some weird joke and leave it at that.

The scent of cocoa butter still clung to Al's skin where Sam had touched him. His dark eyes half closed as he touched his fingers to his lips, tasting Sam's lingering kiss there. His mouth had been warm from the sun, touched with a taste of peaches and cool cream.

Something was up, maybe the breakthrough Verbena talked about. The kiss had been delivered, not impulsively, but deliberately, as if Sam had been doing it to see how Al would react. He pulled himself off the chaise and hurried into the house to see if Sam was all right and to talk to him about this... this new facet.

The water was running in the master bathroom, and Al touched the door, leaning his head against it to hear any other sounds within. When the water was turned off, he kept his ears open for movement and heard the awful sound of Sam slipping and a short cry.

The knob turned easily under his hand and Al entered, his heart bouncing against his ribs. Sam was half in and half out of the tub, one bare leg falling over the side, trying to push himself up, and not succeeding. His face was twisted in lines of grief, not pain. The older man knelt by Sam and gently assisted him into the tub without comment. "You hurt?" he asked softly.

"I'm okay." His voice was small, choked with tears. "Just a bump, not watching what I was doing." He writhed out of Al's grip, turning his back to him. His eyes shut tightly, he repeatedly slammed his left fist against the porcelain.

Al caught the hand in his, keeping Sam from breaking his bones with the painful-looking slams. "I know you wanted me to wait, kid. Not press, but it seems to me that we need to talk." He sighed as Sam trembled under his hand. The scent radiating from his body - suntan oil and peach - didn't help matters much. "What's inside, Sam? You can't make a phone call. You do have a lot you're not tellin' me." He gently kneaded the soft, slippery shoulders under his free hand, feeling Sam's entire body shake.

Sam shook his head. His throat closed in sheer terror of talking to any voice on the other end of the phone. The frightened man next to him was behaving calmly, only wanting him to talk about the pain inside. God, it did hurt. He glanced over at Al, his heart breaking as he took in the beautiful, dark, concerned eyes. Huddling in the hot water, arms wrapped around his body, he didn't know if he wanted his friend to go away, or for himself to disappear again.

"Spill it, Sam," Al said, becoming exasperated with Sam's chilling silence. "Spill it, or I'm leaving you alone."

"I love you." The words were said in a voice barely above a whisper, followed by another shiver.

"I know, Sam. It's that, then." Al played his hand over Sam's bare back, trying to soothe the trembles. "Talk. All of it."

"I'm so sorry, Al. It was an impulse." He bit the words out, shoving back the tears.

"You gave me a kiss, Sam. I can't say it was the most unpleasant experience of my life." Gently, he turned Sam's face so their eyes could meet. "It was all you. Covered with ice cream and a real slob, but real. I'm not repulsed by the idea of... " He closed his lips tightly, knowing he had to say just the right thing to those hope filled eyes. "Remember Tommy?" Sam nodded, his head bent so Al had trouble seeing his face. "Maybe that changed a few ideas I had. You didn't care whether he was gay or straight. Just that he needed help. It was sort of shock treatment for me, Sam. I guess after that, I changed my thinking a bit. Aw, kid..." Taking some water from the tub in his hand, Al carefully spilled it over the back of Sam's head. Letting his hand linger in the long brown hair for a moment, he then brought more water UF, wetting down the strands.

It was easy for Sam to give into the gentle hands in his hair, softly lathering, brushing away stray bits of soap so they wouldn't get into his eyes. Tears were falling down his face, mixing with the bath water.

When Al was finished with the shampoo, he dipped Sam backwards, careful to keep him from going under by bracing him with his hand. He rinsed the shampoo out, stroking his fingers through the shining wetness. Every bit of soap rinsed, he then eased him back up.

Sam's eyes were shut, his face closed and trembling. Al bit his lip, soaping up the washcloth. "I know you love me, Sam." Gently, he brought the cloth over the silent man's neck, sweeping over his back, leaving a thin layer of suds there. "I know it, and you know it. Next step, I guess, is figuring out what to do about it." He sighed as he wrung out the cloth and rinsed the soap from Sam's body. "I've been makin' decisions for so long for both of us - and..." Squaring his shoulders, he laid the cloth on the edge of the tub and swept all of Sam into his arms, burying his face into the wet strands of silk. Sam's right arm came up and around his neck, holding him like he'd never let go.

"I want to know about phones, Sam. Why can't you use them?"

"I'm scared." The words were muffled against Al's chest.

"You freeze, and I think I understand the fear. Not stupid, or strange, considering what you've been through. It isn't going to come back easy, as much as we wish it would. You have to work with Beeks, and keep talking to me, and Greg. Now, let's get you out of the water and back to solid ground, okay?"

Al got up from the floor and helped Sam out of the tub. Gripping the handrail, Sam held himself up while the other man reached for a thick towel and wrapped him in it, gently rubbing him dry. With a smaller one, he dried his hair carefully. With the tiniest of grins, Sam lowered his head so Al could reach it, touched by the way he was showing how he felt about him.

Towel still securely wrapped around his slim form, Sam braced himself on the sink, closing his eyes against the reflection in the mirror. "No," he said softly, shaking his head.

Al started, remembering what 'Bena had said about Sam and mirrors. He went to his friend's side and touched Sam's cheek, forcing the green gold eyes to open and focus on his reflection. "That's you; 100% Sam Beckett. Pretty frightening to have to see him again, isn't it?"

Taking a shaking breath, Sam gazed at the image Al was making him look at. It was a stranger, vaguely familiar, a man with an eye that slanted one way, a mouth that drooped down the left side... God, it was all wrong! Another Leap, seeing a reflection of another body in the mirror.

Under the hand he kept over Sam's shoulders, braced carefully, Al could feel his friend tremble. "That's Sam Beckett, the man I know, and love. That hasn't changed, kid."

Sam bolted from Al's hands, using the walls to keep him upright as he staggered from the enclosed area and that strange image that frightened him half to death. As he entered his room he glanced wildly around, wanting a place to hide, away from Al, away from reality. His mind writhed under the grip of the new feelings and sensations. This was too much, far too much for him to cope with.

Alarmed, Al followed, and gently maneuvered Sam onto the bed. The glazed expression in the wide hazel eyes turned the older man's gut to ice. I've pushed him over the edge, he thought wildly. Curling into a fetal position, Sam huddled on the bed, his face twisted in agony.

The only thing Sam could feel was Al's soothing touch on his head, stroking his hair, murmuring it was all right. His stroking fingers seemed to push away the worst of the fear, warmth flooding in with each soft plea.

"I'm afraid, Sam," Al said, trying to break through whatever block Sam was putting up. "Talk to me, please, tell me..."

"Hold me." Sam shut his eyes tightly as Al crawled up onto the mattress and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Tremblings started at his toes, working up to a full-fledged earthquake, hitting every nerve all at once.

Pressing his face into the back of Sam's neck, Al drew him as close as he could in the tightest hug possible... The first sob broke; then, the dam. Tears again, the grief that was clenched so deep within the other man, dredged up out of desperation. Sam was crying as if his heart had broken; hysterical, shaking his head violently from side to side as if fighting for the emotion to come out.

"Let it go, Sam!" Al touched his lips to the back of Sam's head, a soft kiss to let the kid know he was there and cared. The sounds became worse, screams tearing from Sam's throat; noise, almost animal like. He tried to bury himself in Al's embrace and the older man tightened his arms around Sam, willing himself to take on some of the pain that was inside him. It seemed to work. After a time, which seemed an eternity, the cries became gulps, finally working down to the sounds of sleep.

With great care, so he wouldn't wake him, Al pulled away from Sam. His first thought was to call Beeks, no matter what. She was still home, and, after Al's terse words, she said she'd be right over.

Al took a seat by Sam's bed, worried and watchful. Sam was a mess, towel tangled around his long legs, his face tear-streaked and swollen from crying. Raking his fingers through his short, black hair, Al wondered what Beeks could possibly do to remedy the situation he'd unwittingly caused.

"It was the right thing to do, Al," Verbena said, maybe for the third time. When she'd arrived on the scene, the Admiral was in an agitated state, pacing the living room. "Put down the cigar, and talk to me."

"I made him do it," Al stated flatly, slumping onto the couch. "He freaked out, badly." His voice drifted down to a near whisper. "Maybe he won't come out of it."

"Yes, he will, and it was for the best. He needed to confront his 'new' self, the man who came back from Time. You might find that the Sam Beckett who wakes up tomorrow morning will be more talkative -possibly more possessive of your time - but he'll be asking questions and answering yours." She sat down on the edge of the sturdy marble coffee table, gently taking Al's hand in hers. "I want to see him, make sure he's fine."

Wordlessly, Al gestured towards Sam's room. "He hasn't stirred since I called you."

Entering the darkened room she let her eyes adjust to the dimness and felt her heart break at the sight. Sam looked like a child, his hands curled over his face, deeply asleep, still wrapped in the towel. Quietly, she closed the door and went back to Al.

The older man rose from the chair as she returned, his expression anxious. "Well?"

"I didn't touch him, Al." She smiled at his worry. "I think he'll be out until morning. You broke into that wall he'd put up around himself. Making him face his body image probably opened up whatever door he'd closed over it. He didn't want to be Sam Beckett on this Leap."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Sam Beckett killed, Admiral. He had to do some things on Leaps that Dr. Beckett would never do. When he returned home, he curled that part of him away and became a different person for a while. Still our Sam, but frightened, and not as sure of himself as he'd been before. "

Al sighed, rubbing his weary eyes with one hand. "What can I do for him now?" -

"I'll make your excuses at the Project, and I'm sure your aide can handle a crisis for you if one arises. Sam needs you close, more than ever. One more thing." She held out her hand expectantly. "I want to check you over before I leave."

"Why, for Christ's sake?" Al frowned darkly. "I'm fine!"

"For my own peace of mind, okay?" She snatched his hand and methodically took his pulse and checked over his other vitals. Al glared the entire time, but allowed her the examination. She'd brought her little black bag, and took his blood pressure, her mouth pinching tightly as she read the valve. Undoing the cuff, she stuffed it into the bag and handed Al a brown bottle of pills. "Prescribed by Swann, and don't argue. Your bop. is way up there, and the stress could kill you if you don't rest."

"But, Sam..."

"Settle him in for the night and go to bed." Firmly, she stuffed the pills in his hand. "Take two of these and sleep. They are very mild, so if Sam needs you, it won't be difficult for you to wake up. Seeing him like that makes me think he'll be quite asleep, until morning, at least."

She grated her coat, and gave him an encouraging grin. "If he's really a mess, you'll know it. Call me. I trust you, and Sam's in great hands."

After she'd left, Al locked the door behind her and turned back to Sam's room. He'd debated telling her of Sam's behavior before the mirror incident, but decided that was between them and no one else. It didn't seem to be strange anymore, that Sam might love him that way. It was actually a comforting thought, making him warm and glad he was near.

Practically tiptoeing in, he gently untangled Sam's heavy limbs from the towel and rolled him under the sheet and bedspread. Carefully, he placed his hand on the exhausted man's chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath he took. Sleep had relaxed his features, but not the tear-stains and down turned mouth.

He was so deeply asleep, as if he had been drugged. With infinite tenderness, Al brushed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen over Sam's forehead, almost wanting to cry himself. He'd been through so much.

Before he changed his mind, he left Sam alone to sleep and went to his own room, changed, and fell into bed. "Damn, the pills." Verbena had given him them for a reason, and maybe it was for the best. He swallowed two of them without water, and hit the lights. Within minutes he was fast asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

PART THIRTEEN

"Al?"

Sam's voice had been so soft, if his ears hadn't been tuned to it, the older man would've missed the sound. He rolled over and squinted at the man silhouetted in the doorway. Sam was a dark, tall shadow, backlit by the light from the bath, his hands braced on the door frame. "I'm right here, Sam. Come on in."

"I was cold." Touching the walls for support, he stumbled into the room and collapsed on the other side of Al's bed. "Why am I so cold?"

"I guess I should've stayed with you, kid. You can crash with me for the night." Al grinned, as the half asleep man crawled under the blankets with him.

"I am sleepy," Sam stated, his bright eyes struggling to say open. He reached out and gripped Al's hand tightly. "Don't leave me, please."

"I won't." The older man kept his hand in Sam's until he was sure the kid was out again. It suddenly startled him that he'd let Sam in his bed without the benefit of clothing - not a stitch - and it didn't matter. It was as natural as the kiss he'd given him so freely that afternoon. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Sam, rocking his body gently.

Responding to the touch, Sam snuffled, burying his face in Al's shoulder, his body relaxing. He knew he was safe now, protected by Al, and the new realization that things were not as bad as they seemed.

Bright light poured in through the bedroom window as Al awoke. It was some hours later, by the clock, nearly noon. Sam's lax body, still deeply asleep, was pressed closely to his.

As carefully as he possibly could, Al disentangled himself from his friend and crept softly across the floor to the bathroom. When he returned, his friend was lying on his back, sleepy greenish eyes watchful.

"Feeling better?" Al asked, seating himself on the edge of the bed near Sam.

Concern seeped from every pore in Al's body. Sam reached out and took the other man's hand, squeezing gently. "I think so." He frowned. "Was Verbena here last night?"

"I... I didn't know what else to do." Al ducked his head, as if it had been a personal failing. "You were pretty shook up, kid. I got scared, I guess."

Sam met his friend's eyes, his expression calm and under control. "I couldn't face myself."

"'Bena said it was for the best, Sam. Maybe the worst you had to go through." He sighed. "When I got back from 'Nam I had to face that stranger, too. Maybe said some of the same things you said last night. It took me a while to fill his shoes - when I discovered it was me, just older and wiser."

Sam's voice was wandering, hollow in thought. "How long did it take, Al?"

"Months - a while." He started to say more, and dismissed the words on the tip of his tongue as maudlin and sticky sweet.

"What?" Sam grinned, his face finally smoothing into easier lines. "There's something else?"

"You came along, I guess. It was the best thing that ever happened to me." Al stroked his free hand through Sam's hair briefly, flipping back the errant locks. "Came bouncing into my life and dismantled all the crap. I wasn't sure at first, y'know. You were so enthused about everything and I just wanted to stuff the bullshit and run. Couldn't do that with you around, pestering me." He chuckled softly, starting to get up. "I'll make us some kind of meal and we can..."

"No, Al. Stay." The expression in Sam's eyes was firm, not frightened, or childlike, as it had been, other times. "I want to lie here with you. Can you do that?"

The older man turned softly, seeing the plea on Sam's face. He couldn't resist the uncertainty in the kid's eyes, worried that he might have said the wrong thing. All of his reluctance faded, only wanting Sam, now, to love him and reciprocate the caring that he felt from his friend.

Sliding back over the silky bedspread, Al pulled Sam close to him, and kissed his chin softly, moving upward and capturing his lips. They moved beneath his, and Al tasted salt in the touch. Drawing back, Al placed both his hands on either side of Sam's face, smiling tenderly at the tears that poured out of the greenish eyes. "Do you really want this, Sam?"

The other man tried for a moment to move out of Al's hands, but he gently turned him back. "I do, but only if you want me. I love you." Sam's voice was cracking, his right hand coming up to cover one of Al's. "I was so scared, feeling the way I did, afraid I'd scare you, or send you scramming out the door forever."

"I wasn't sure, at first. Not until you..." He smiled. "When you made your move by the pool yesterday. Kid, you are full of surprises." Al could feel the tears beginning to start in his own eyes. "I want to touch you, Sam. Maybe marry you, spend the rest of my life loving you. Would you want that? Just me? God, you should have kids, and there's no way I can give you that. I'd be a selfish son-of-a-bitch keeping you from a real life."

"My God, Al, I had those things. I was a Mom for a while, and I'm always playing Daddy. I'm not missing a thing, because I've lived it all. You have too, right with me, experiencing the same lives I led." Making his decision, not turning away from it, Sam lay back on the bed, pulling the spread down to his hips, his head on the pillows beneath them. He closed his eyes, waiting for Al to make the moves, the decision, as he did all the time.

Sam's newly-tanned body was before him, his placid face trusting. He let his hands play over Sam's arms, brushing gently against the soft hair on his chest. The gentle sigh that escaped Sam's lips made him bolder, his fingers playing over the barely visible nipples and stroking down over the ribbed flanks.

Sam's eyes opened and he sat up, reaching for Al's shirt, gently tugging and pulling the fabric up and over the other man's head. The dark chest was as furry as his own, tiny white scars barely visible but there.

"They hurt you. If I had..." he started softly.

"Sam, knock it off, okay?" Al gently pulled his friend close. "Just something else we have in common, I guess," he murmured softly into Sam's hair. "You carry yours inside. Took a few for me, too." He kissed him on the cheek and gently wiped away the tears that were falling. "I want to make you feel there's nothing between us anymore."

Sam gasped as Al's hands touched his lower back, sliding gently over his buttocks, squeezing and massaging. He reached down and pulled the bottoms of Al's pajamas off and felt just the barest of touches as his right hand brushed the other man's penis.

"God, Sam!" Al's eyes were bright with arousal. He hadn't realized that another man's touch could make him feel like that. "Go ahead, kid," he said softly, parting his thighs and taking Sam's hand in his own. "Touch me, Sam."

Shakily, the younger man reached down and played his fingers around the crease between Al's thighs and crotch, gently touching his penis with one finger, stroking softly against it. It wasn't unpleasant or displeasing, and his eyes widened as it grew beneath his touch.

"I want you to lay back, Sam." Al pressed the other man against the sheets, straddling him, pressing his cock against Sam's and bending over him to kiss that expressive mouth. The lips beneath his opened, Sam's tongue gently exploring, making his gut clench. Eyes closed, Al held Sam's mouth, bracing his hands on the strong shoulders. He broke away for air, pleased at the hot look in his lover's eyes. The cock beneath his was hard, brushing against his thigh.

He moved down Sam's body, laving his chest and stomach with his tongue. Frowning, he glanced up as Sam giggled.

"It tickles," the other man said, trying to stifle the laugh that threatened to explode out of him.

"I'll tickle you," Al said gutteringly, licking down Sam's thighs and over near where his friend's arousal was apparent. He sat up and softly blew on the area he'd wet with his mouth, grinning as Sam writhed in agony under the coolness on his hot skin. The flesh where his swimsuit had covered him was white against the dark tan and pink. Incredibly beautiful to Al's eyes.

He took Sam's shaft in his hands, stroking gently. He bent to kiss the side of it, and was surprised at how soft it was there, almost like tissue paper, delicately surrounding the hardness. Kissing up and down it, he let his tongue play across the top, knowing how he'd enjoyed this when he'd been with a woman. Sam's right hand was tangled in his hair, reaching to touch him.

He paused in his ministrations, looking up at Sam's passion filled face. Pure love in his down turned smile, his long fingers stroking Al's face for a moment before the older man bent to take Sam's penis into his mouth. He sucked in long, slow strokes, bringing the other man to the brink, then pulled away.

With his right hand, Sam struggled to touch his friend, pull him close. He was just out of his reach, nearer to his other arm as he slowly kissed his way back up Sam's body. With as much strength as he could muster, he reached with his left hand and gripped Al's arm.

It stopped the other man cold. Sam had limited movement on his bad side, but had never held anything before. An enigmatic smile touched Al's face as he reached to touch the other man's face. "If I had known this would make you move, I'd' a done it a while ago."

"Don't stop, Al." Sam arched his back as his friend touched his cock.

Planting his hands over Sam's firm thighs, he took his cock into his mouth again, sucking slowly, until finally, the other man came, hot spurts touching the sheets and skin as Al pulled away. Sam's hands tore at the bedclothes, trying desperately to reach for Al and was rewarded by his friend sliding up his body and holding him close.

His hand clenched Al's organ and stroked him to release, firmly grasping and stroking softly until the hard shaft softened under his fingers and his warm seed touched his own skin.

Keeping his arms around Al's shoulders, Sam pressed his face against the other man's chest, his eyes wet with tears. It had been wonderful, perfect, and not in the least bit shameful. Like they were meant for this.

Unrestrained, Al held the younger man close, reassuring his friend with a gentle stroking motion against his muscular back. They had a lifetime of mornings like this ahead of them. He touched Sam's ear with his lips and whispered softly, "I love you, kid."

A bright, tear-filled smile touched Sam's face. A rare gift indeed; Admiral Calavicci admitting an emotion in such a gentle way. He pulled Al closer as he tried to move away. "I want to hold you, like you've been holding me all this time. Sleep, and have you near, but I'm taking care of you."

Al snuggled in, allowing Sam' to wrap him in the blanket. Content and sated, the older man brushed his lips against Sam's chest for a moment before he drifted into sleep.

"Hello?"

Al frowned. The sheets next to him were rumpled and empty, still holding the warmth of Sam's body. It was much later; he'd slept far longer than he'd meant to. Turning onto his back, he pillowed his head on his arms, listening idly to Sam speak...

He started in the bed, ready to spring. Who was in the house? Verbena?

"It's me, Sam. Your big brother."

In a twinkling, Al's heart slowed it's rapid pace, barely wanting to breathe. Sam appeared in the doorway, dressed in his robe, holding the cordless phone and grinning at his lover merrily. "Yes, Katie. It's Sam." He gave Al the most loving look possible as he turned to continue his conversation. "I know, I know," he said, moving away from Al's soft, satisfied gaze. "It's good to hear your voice, too."


End file.
